


An Alliance of the Fallen

by CheesyJumpersandJam



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asshole Dáin Ironfoot, Azog the Defiler - Freeform, BAMF Thranduil, Battle of Five Armies, Caring Thranduil, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Enemies to Friends, Evil Dáin Ironfoot, Gold Sickness (Tolkien), Hurt Thranduil, Hurt/Comfort, Mirkwood Lore, Parent Thranduil, Poor Bilbo, Poor Fíli, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Play, Protective Legolas Greenleaf, Protective Thranduil, Public Humiliation, Revenge, Rings of Power, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheesyJumpersandJam/pseuds/CheesyJumpersandJam
Summary: Amidst the chaos of the Battle of the Five Armies, things take a different turn.  Thranduil saves Thorin's life but at terrible cost, Dáin discovers something on the battlefield that changes everything, and Bilbo feels responsible for all of it.Everything is the same pre-BotFA but then veers off.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 93





	1. The Battle

Metal clanged against metal. Evil and good clashed viciously under the gloomy sky. It was as if neither storm or sun could win their own battle to reign the heavens, much like the creatures who dwelled below could not find a definitive victory in sight. 

The cold embrace of winter pierced the very air and mixed with the grit of war: blood, sweat, and dead flesh. It was a smell the Elvenking knew all too well. Even after living over a millennia, the stench still curled in his lungs and furled his dark brows with contempt. 

Mere moments ago, he had gazed upon the ramparts of Erebor where Thorin Oakenshield stood in silent, seething rage. His azure eyes had been ablaze with such vehement fury as they laid upon the Elvenking, yet his lips were pulled tightly closed in a poorly-hidden smirk. He had nothing more to say and the corners of his mouth pulled higher into his cheek. 

To be on the receiving end of that hatred was something Thranduil expected, yet he could not dispute the tightness around his collar and the sudden drop in his gut. It was hard to deny that he did not deserve such deep resentment, but he would not risk the lives of his people then. 

He would have given anything to not risk them now. 

The raven abruptly disembarked the ramparts with a rattling caw and Thranduil followed the black bird to over the hill, where Dain’s army crested into sight. The elves had been wedged between the forces of dwarves and first blood spilled when the great arrows drove into the Woodland’s army like a wolf’s fangs to a deer’s throat. 

Then an earth-shattering tremor changed everything. 

Thranduil swung his arm out, grasping the hilt of his sword pommel up so the blade sliced through the exposed neck of the wretched orc. Flecks of blood coated the side of his face and pauldron as the dying creature shrieked out a blood-sputtering gurgle. With a repulsed grunt, Thranduil knocked the orc down with his elbow, twisting his body to swing his other arm across another advancing orc.

The attack was relentless and brutal. Though most of the orcs lacked the skills and combative prowess of many of Thranduil’s men, they had the grave upperhand of numbers. Thus, much to Thranduil’s frustration, they weren’t so much as driven back as they were rammed towards the citadel like grains of sand against crashing waves.

His men were being corralled into the ruins of Dale and Thranduil was anything but content to be bottle-necked and possibly swarmed. 

He was well-aware that the orcs would not be so coordinated if they did not have Azog leading them from Ravenhill. The white orc was cunning and, Thranduil hated to admit it, proved to be a competent strategist. 

Silver eyes flitted to the left, catching fleeting glimpses of shadows running through the broken ruins. His nostrils flared and the wrinkle between his brows deepened. He was afraid this would happen. 

“They’re cutting us off! Archers get to the walls!” Thranduil’s voice rang above the clamor of battle and his men hurriedly obeyed the command.

The remaining archers of the shrinking group gracefully scaled the crumbling walls left standing before taking aim and firing at will. 

The first line of orcs barreling towards the elves fell beneath the wave of arrows and Thranduil was grateful there did not appear to be any orc archers within the horde rushing in. 

“We must make it to the other side of the city before we’re surrounded! _Afad- nin!_ ”

The Elvenking slashed brutally against the onslaught of orcs barreling towards them before moving down the ruined street leading to the otherside of Dale’s main square. He had to get his men through before they were trapped. 

Light-footed feet leaped from wall to wall as the archers dutifully cleared whatever enemies they could, following the troop to the other side of the clearing. 

The elves had formed two lines of defense as they retreated. One line faced the pursuing army of orcs and the other fought off any that dove in from the sides as each raced towards the other end of the city. 

Thranduil could hear the orcs from both flanks closing in. Heavy and hastened feet deafened the sound of his own labored breath as he sprinted forward, desperately closing the gap between his men and their survival. 

“ _Nin Aran!_ More forces are coming in from the South! We cannot hold them back!” An archer cried from the rooftops, nocking arrow after arrow with tired, sluggish arms. 

Thranduil had already felt their arrival through the trembling stones beneath his feet. He bared his teeth and ignored the burning of his lungs as he pushed himself to run faster, shoving an orc out of his path with the edge of his blade. 

His elven sight granted him a discouraging view as orcs from both left and right quickly moved to join a sturdy blockade ahead, growling in devilish victory. 

Thranduil closed his eyes but did not slow down. His mean wordlessly followed, protecting their king at all costs. The Elvenking’s lips moved silently, words muttered beneath his breath that no elf or orc heard. But they were not meant for them. 

A powerful cry like the wailing wind before a storm echoed from behind the wall of orcs ahead. They turned their heads in surprise and split their attention between the elven army sprinting towards them and the source of the beastial sound. 

From outside the walls of the city a great animal galloped forwards. The elk’s head was held low as it surged its deadly prongs into the line of orcs blocking the elves escape. The fur around its neck bristled as it broke through the wall of bodies with frightening speed. Black blood stained its shoulders and dripped from the antlers as the beast galloped forwards towards its master.

Thranduil smiled, raising his hand to meet its flared nostrils, gusts of air steadily fanning his face. 

“Astaronwë, _mellon-nin_ ,” the Elvenking’s fingers fondly soothed the great strain of muscles beneath the fur of its neck. He could feel the pulsating adrenaline that soared through the veins below the skin. His hand pulled away, dyed black.

In one fluid motion, Thranduil swung atop his mount and charged his men towards the broken link of orcs. The few enemies that withstood the first battering braced with spears in hand, gnashing their bloodied teeth and screeching with animalistic rage. 

Thranduil sent arrows flying with one flick of his wrist and the last defense of the orcs in the way crumbled beneath the volley and the thundering hooves. 

The instant the elves had made it past the trap, a bone-chilling horn filled the war-torn air. Jerking his neck to face Ravenhill, Thranduil locked eyes with the sneer of the white orc. The too-pale blue of Azog’s eyes burned into the Elvenking’s skull with unwavering intensity. The lour was returned with a twitch of fine lips as the Sindarin king basked in the pale orc’s fury. The elves were not going to fall so easily. Thranduil was going to make sure of it. 

So much elf blood had been spilled. So many of his kingdom were laid to rest upon this cursed battlefield. So many would never walk among the _Eryn Galen_ again. Scattered, like the leaves in fall. So briefly they had been a part of life, only to be crushed beneath the feet of darkness and evil. Such vile things that plagued the lands and claimed too much.

Thranduil’s spiteful smirk fell with his heart. No more. This ended now. 

“King Thranduil!” 

The Elvenking’s ears followed the call of his name. His eyes roved over the surrounding ruins he could see above the heads of his men who were still flooding in from the main square. 

“King Thranduil!” The voice was small but pressing. 

It was not until the familiarity of the voice caught up with Thranduil that his eyes lowered and finally laid to rest upon the small hobbit running towards him, weaving through the elven army that carefully avoided the tiny creature with elvish deftness.

“King Thranduil!” Bilbo repeated, his lack of breath obvious as he sunk in on himself with heavy pants. “Your son--” he forced out “--Legolas has returned!” 

The sob of relief caught in Thranduil’s throat, though his eyes shone with silent gratitude to Eru that his son returned to him alive. He had not looked upon his son’s face since closing Mirkwood’s gates with the intention of never opening them again.

He immediately dismounted from Astaronwë’s strong back and followed the instinctual pull, like a permanent tether that linked father and son to where he knew Legolas would be. Bilbo attempted to follow with a painful stitch in his side. 

Thranduil’s feet moved of their own accord when his heart swelled at the golden-head that appeared atop a pile of rubble, the only thing between their reunion until at last nothing remained. 

His immediate reaction was to embrace his child, hold him against the smooth defense of his cuirass until the danger was gone and he could properly wrap his arms around his most precious thing in this world. Yet, that was never their way. Not for an age at least. He hadn’t cradled his son and provided the loving comfort of a parent’s embrace since the passing of his great love. 

Since then, the only affection that each could openly return was a firm hand on the other’s shoulders. Fingers trembled to squeeze just a little harder, but they never did. 

And so the Elvenking did as he always did. 

He ushered composure upon his countenance, drying away the sheen that filmed his silver eyes as they darted over every inch of Legolas’s face, thoroughly examining his son for any sign of injury or trouble. 

At first neither spoke. Tauriel gave a bow of her head and maintained a respectful distance from the royal family. Legolas hesitated under the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder before he too reciprocated the gesture. “ _Adar--_ ”

“Are you well?” Thranduil’s voice was quiet and soft. Like a summer breeze the words radiated a gentle warmth that should not be felt during this cold winter day. Legolas could not hide his surprise. 

“I’m fine,” the reply was matter-of-factly and there was not a rest of breath for Thranduil to ask his next question before Legolas continued. “ _Adar_ , please. There is no time. Tauriel and I bring urgent news! We have just returned from Gundabad, barely ahead of the forces that are marching from there as we speak. They will swarm Ravenhill in a matter of moments. We must warn Thorin!” 

The worry in Thranduil’s chest grew, a coolness resting upon his cheek as the color drained from his face. He did not see his men lasting the barrage of another army. 

As the words left Legolas’s lips, the Elvenking’s eyes wandered to the heaps of bodies laying in the streets. Motionless and as cold as snow. The mention of the dwarven king’s name made his eyes latch onto the cerulean of his son’s again. 

“What of Thorin?”

Legolas looked taken aback at the sudden outburst. This time, it was Tauriel who spoke up. 

“He is making his way up the hill as we speak. And Kíli is with him,” she barely whispered the last part. 

Had he not been solely fixated upon his son, the Elvenking might have noticed the bristle in Bilbo’s shoulder at the news. Or the way the hobbit hurriedly slinked away, a seemingly second wind of energy fueling his fatigue in the form of sheer terror and fear.

Thranduil’s brows rose. So it was another trap then. Azog meant to bait the line of Durin to the hill and annihilate them once and for all with an ambush. 

There was no great bond between Thorin and him. One could argue there was not even mutual respect between the two kings. Any fantasy of an allegiance between dwarves and elves had died the day the fire drake set his sights on Erebor. Smaug had burned a wound so deep between Elvenking and Dwarven king that the scars would remind them both for an eternity of the faults in the other. Thranduil imagined that Thorin no doubt swore to his dying day to destroy the elf who _“lacked all honor!_ ” The elf who abandoned him and his people in their time of greatest need. But Thranduil could not bear the idea of losing this war to evil. Pride be damned, he would much rather see Thorin stand victorious than the likes of Azog.

Wordlessly, Thranduil turned away, Astaronwë already heeding his master’s silent beckon. 

“ _Adar--_ ”

“If what you say is true, Azog will no doubt be luring Thorin and his heirs into a trap. I will find them.” 

“ _Adar_ , wait! If you go there alone you will also meet the same fate--” Legolas stepped forward but stopped short when his father shot him a look that pinned him to where he stood. A look Legolas had seen only a few times. A look that held such authority it chilled Legolas just to see it. Yet there was something underneath it all. It was not a cold look, it was not detached and impersonal. There was a desperation in it. A look that wanted to say so much more but could not break past the resolve of a king . 

“ _Stay_ and protect our people.” 

Without another word, the elk exhaled a rumbling gust before taking two strides towards the rubble from where Legolas and Tauriel had just come from and clearing it in one powerful bounding jump. 

“ _Adar!_ ” Legolas shouted after the elk’s rapidly shrinking form. He breathed out his nose, his jaw clenching shut.

“Legolas, I cannot stand idly by while…” Tauriel trailed off, but her gaze remained steady. “I’m going up there.” 

Legolas matched her stare, unsheathing one of his twin blades. “There is no time to waste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the elvish terms used:
> 
> Afad- nin - follow me  
> Nin Aran - my King  
> Mellon-nin - my friend
> 
> Made up a name for Thranduil's elk and also gave it more screen time because I just think he deserved a bit more :'(
> 
> Astaronwë -  
> Loyal, steadfast ( mix of astar and voronwë )


	2. The Precipice

Thranduil leaned forward, bracing a hand upon the elk’s neck as a noiseless command to hasten its gait. His other hand gripped the hilt of his sword aside him, ready to remove any who would get in his way. 

If Thorin fell, so did they all. 

Astaronwë faithfully carried on swiftly towards Ravenhill. Few made a stand between the great elk and its destination, but some had tried and met their fate from Thranduil’s blade or beneath Astaronwë’s hooves. 

It was at the foot of the hill that Thranduil met some resistance. The war-carriage that had torn down the River Running had been pursued by many of the larger foes. Most had perished in the freezing waters but two were still making their way up the mountain and soon saw the Elvenking fast on their heels. 

The giants clumsily descended down the rocky side of the hill to meet Thranduil at the crossing. Armed with devastating maces and clubs, one raised their weapon above their head before swinging down to the elf and mount. 

Thranduil steered Astaronwë with a firm press of his hand to the right, the elk’s agile legs instantly veering momentum to dodge the impact that crumbled rock and ice with a jolt in the earth. The Elvenking barely had time to duck beneath the second ogre’s swing before the unmistakable deep croak of earth splitting open came alive. 

All at once, the ground tipped and a battle of balance took over. The ogre that had pummeled the ice with his mace was dropped into the River Running with a sharp snap. The giant’s hands shot out, instinctively grappling onto anything to remain afloat. Astaronwë cried out frightfully as the ice from underneath cocked and swayed as the shockwave of destruction ebbed throughout the remainder of the crossing. Thranduil sucked in a breath through his teeth, squeezing his thighs together and leaning forward to guide his mount to safe ground.

The elk sprang forward at the command but before his hooves could touch the otherside of the riverbank, a great force knocked the beast to the side. With barely any time to react, Thranduil’s legs curled in and he dove head first, rolling into a landing on the solid rock. He flung his head up after the contact and fumed with wrath at the ogre that wobbled unsteadily on the ice, the tip of his club matted with fresh blood and brown tufts of fur. 

Astaronwë bellowed in agony, his once wondrous and mighty call broken and shattered. Thranduil felt his heart lurch, but there was no time to grieve. The ogre spotted the elf crouched on the ground and lifted the dirtied club once again to strike. 

Thranduil steeled himself to dodge the attack but the frantic scuffing of hooves scraping ice drew his attention and he watched with a tightness in his chest as Astaronwë bravely lunged at the ogre, his heaving sides pouring blood and his back leg a twisted mess. The tips of his antlers sunk deep into the ogre’s thick hide, his wild eyes alight with unbridled spirit. 

Both giant and noble beast crashed into the broken ice and sank beneath the white mosaic of the river’s cracked surface before anyone could blink. Such ruckus before was now deathly silent.

Thranduil’s fingers clenched his sword in a vice-like grip. There was no time to mourn him. Astaronwë. Steadfast and loyal. Qualities Thranduil aptly named him for. His faithful friend until the end. Thranduil would not cry. 

No. Only blood will be spilled. He would make sure of it. 

The Elvenking rose and glided up the hill with determined speed. The area was suspiciously void of any creatures. Not even a raven’s crow to disturb the insidious mist that thickened the higher the elf ran. 

_ Yes,  _ Thranduil thought.  _ Most definitely a trap. _

Subconsciously, Thranduil moved with more caution as he neared the ruins of Ravenhill. Though still urgent in his quest, the Elvenking did not desire to be met with the same trap that Thorin and his heirs most certainly faced. 

As if to punctuate the gravity of the situation, Thranduil’s keen eyes scoured the battlement where the black banners stood and saw no trace of the white orc or any living thing for that matter. He immediately resorted to his heightened hearing to detect any sign of the dwarves’ whereabouts. 

_ For once they do not loudly announce their presence to the whole of Middle Earth _ he thought sardonically despite the seriousness of the predicament at hand. 

Pebbles tumbled down from above and Thranduil tensed his arm in preparation to strike. He craned his neck to the side, straining to hear what the source of the disturbance was and widened his eyes as he side-stepped out of the way just before a goat jumped from the mist. 

The animal paid him no attention as it bleated down the hill. Though the passing was quick, Thranduil did not miss the side of the goat’s pure-white coat drenched with red with no gash in sight. 

Lifting his eyes up to the fort, Thranduil silently climbed to the mist where the goat had exited. 

The change was instantaneous. The air was even cooler, the mild sun unable to pierce the fog. The Elvenking found his misting breath vanishing into the cloud around him, unable to differentiate between the two. 

He was just beginning to wonder where the shroud of mist ended until at last he could see peaks of the fort breaking through. 

And that is when he heard it. 

_ “This one dies first.” _

The words were spoken with malice, growled out from the pale orc’s throat. Thranduil was still concealed in the fog, but he didn’t need vision to see the scarred, curled lips pulled into a sadistic sneer. 

_ “Then the brother.” _

Thranduil stayed low but continued forward. He knew they were close but he still couldn’t see Thorin or his company. And if what he was hearing was any indication, he had little time to lose. 

_ “Then you, Oakenshield.” _

The name was spat out like poison. 

_ “You will die last.” _

Thranduil felt his heartbeat in his temples, the blood rushing in his ears. But he did not miss the cry of Thorin’s nephew calling out before the undeniable sound of a blade sinking into flesh silenced him. 

Thranduil stopped in his tracks, the weight of  death hanging in the air more heavily than the fog that blinded him. He could feel it. The tingling of electricity. Like the forest right before a thunderstorm. The kind of phenomenon that bled the rationality out of someone’s heart and left nothing but unchecked passion and emotion in charge. The fleeting second of calm before something terrible is going to happen. 

_ “Here ends your filthy bloodline!”  _

A shuddering exhale. It was so faint, at first Thranduil thought it was himself it had been born from. But when the sound of something being dropped carelessly, discarded like rubbish, filled the silence, the dwarves responded with rallying cries that promised blood. 

Almost at once, the air came alive with sounds. Thranduil rushed forwards. There was no point in stealth anymore.  The trap was already set. He just hoped Thorin had not yet fallen prey. 

At last emerging from the obscuring fog, he only caught a glimpse of Thorin’s black hair as he undoubtedly charged right into the pale orc’s hands. 

Drawing his second sword, Thranduil was quick in pursuit. He took advantage of the orcs’ distraction, cutting them down with their attention still affixed to Thorin. It wasn’t long, however, before the ghoulish cries of goblins echoed from above and Thranduil knew the hill would be swarmed. 

He did not know where the rest of Thorin’s company was or why they were not beside their king but he had little time to dwell on it. 

Rounding the corner, the next moments played for an eternity in Thranduil’s eyes but passed in just a few seconds. 

He saw the King under the Mountain alone. 

Thranduil’s feet faltered at the sight, sliding nimbly to a stop. Azog was nowhere to be seen. A strange mixture of relief and trepidation competed in every nerve of the elf’s body. Though what he saw comforted him, there was the crawling sensation in his veins that would not quiet the Elvenking’s distrust. For Thorin was deeply engrossed in something beneath his feet. Beneath the ice. The Dwarven king’s boots sluggishly moved with his gaze, a powerful magnetism seeming to draw him towards whatever laid beneath the surface of the water. 

Thranduil’s nerves fired with sparks of unease and he barely took another step forward until out of nowhere, Bilbo shrieked Thorin’s name in horror. The thought of where the hobbit had come from barely crossed Thranduil’s mind before the ice ruptured, and the sound of Thorin’s scream rang through the air. 

He did not even know how he got there so fast. Did not know what force had compelled him forward without even thinking or what he was going to do when he got there. Thranduil only knew that Thorin could not die.

At some point during the rush, Thranduil’s fingers had lost the grasp on both his swords in favor of speed and so the Elvenking found himself lunging with all his strength at the pale orc who had Thorin caught between the ice and the tip of his blade. 

The blade had sunk shallowly into the flesh of Thorin’s chest but went no further as Azog and the Elvenking crashed down river. Their bodies slid across the slick shine of the ice, Thranduil rousing with a wince as he tried to get to his feet with the use of his weakened shoulder. 

Azog speared his arm through the ice, using it to anchor himself and get to his feet. He turned towards the prone elf, roaring with rage, his eyes wide and feral with maddened craze. 

Thranduil rolled out from beneath the impact of Azog’s blow, managing to slide and get his feet underneath him. Azog was blinded by fury, wildly lashing out at the elf who had dared to interfere. 

Light on his feet and agile despite the throbbing in Thranduil’s shoulder, he was able to gracefully dodge the orc’s attacks and stay on his feet atop the slippery battleground. He was without a weapon and cursed himself for being so careless before. His eyes flitted behind him where Thorin still lay motionless on the ground, his sword by his side.

Clenching his jaw, Thranduil side-hopped another strike from Azog before stamping down on the orc’s arm, burying the blade into the ice. The orc snarled as the elf climbed up the orc’s shoulder and leapt off, rolling to the ground and sliding with his hand outstretched towards the sword. 

His fingers could almost feel the cold metal in his grasp, his fingertip grazing the pommel and nudging the sword with the faintest of touches as a massive hand clamped down on Thranduil’s ankle and yanked him back with furious might.

The Elvenking coiled his body, feet solidly planting into the ice but unable to stop the momentum of the throw. Digging his heels into the surface below him Thranduil skated perilously close to the crest of the waterfall. With a grit of his teeth, he twisted his body to the side, giving him the friction needed to stop his slide. He had no time to let go of his breath before Azog came charging forwards. 

This was the moment that lasted the longest.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s voice echoed across the icy top of the hill. The hobbit was frantically running towards the still dwarf. 

It was as if the mention of the dwarf’s name triggered something in Azog, for he gave the Elvenking one last chilling look before turning away completely and advancing towards the Dwarven king and Bilbo.

Thranduil dug his heels in and desperately tried to close the gap between him and the white orc. His feet started slowly against the shimmer of the cold before he could attain any sort of traction to push off. 

He could hardly see the small hobbit with Azog’s imposing figure closing in. He heard the bravery in Bilbo’s voice as he stood his ground between Azog and his prey, refusing to move. All it earned him was a deep, throaty rumbling as the pale orc sniggered at the pathetic display. He did not even bother to use his blade upon the pitiful thing, only drew his arm back and knocked the tiny creature to the side and against the unforgiving surface of a rock with a sickening crash. 

The sound of something metallic skittering across the surface of the ice caught Thranduil’s attention. It was hard to miss the blade that shone radiantly blue. 

_ “You cannot escape me, Oakenshield.”  _

Azog stood over the dwarf’s body.

_ “You cannot escape death.”  _

Azog raised his arm, aiming the jagged blade’s point to the gash already above Thorin’s heart. Then he howled.

Though small, the little blade was sharp as it raked across Azog’s back. Thranduil never separated the blade from the orc’s flesh as he spun around to face him. 

Switching hands, Thranduil cut the orc across the face, narrowly missing the pale eye that widened, aghast in shock. 

The Elvenking drove the orc back in a fury of slashes, kicking the beast back to falter his steps and put as much distance between it and Thorin. Azog fought desperately against the rain of cuts, but Thranduil was quicker. Each wound drew a shout of pure hate from the pale orc’s throat. 

Elf and orc clashed until the battlefield ended. Azog’s foot teetered on the edge of the waterfall, his arms flailing to maintain balance and swipe at the Elvenking who continued to push the orc further and further. 

One last stab into the orc’s chest was the final push. He could feel his hands being pulled on the hilt of the blade to follow the orc’s body backward down the cliffside. 

_ “ADAR!” _

The word left Thranduil breathless and his focus completely shifted to find his son. His silver eyes raked along the ruins until he could see the shine of gold sprinting up from the hillside. He felt his eyes soften at the sight, his lips imperceptibly curving. 

Then gasping.

His scalp sent a wave of pain shooting down his spine, the force of the pull at his head bringing his knees to the ground. He could not help the yelp of surprised hurt as the weight at his neck continued to pull until it pulled no longer.

His body slipped from the ice, dragged by the pale orc whose hand clutched the golden tresses of the Elvenking’s hair until both plummeted into the depths of the Celduin below. 

  
Just before Thranduil was plunged beneath the black cold water he thought he could hear  _ Adar _ again. Only this time he freely shed the tears he had been holding in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get ugly from here. 
> 
> Elvish terms:
> 
> Adar - father


	3. The Hobbit

Bilbo’s large but light feet clamored up Ravenhill. The Elvenking had been hurried upon his steed somewhere not far behind, but the hobbit could not bring himself to look back. His little heart rammed against his rib cage, rattling his bones with every ragged breath. 

He knew Thorin would stop at nothing to exact his revenge upon Azog the Defiler for the crimes against his bloodline and kin. Traveling with the thirteen dwarves for many arduous weeks taught him that much. He knew the hatred ran deep. A twisted fate seemed to ensnare both orc and dwarf in a terrible wrestle of life and death. So when Legolas informed them that Thorin was on his way up the hill, Bilbo could do nothing but run.

His lungs ached for relief and a groan of exhaustion and frustration left the curly-haired creature as he scrambled up loose, crumbling rocks to the top of Ravenhill.

In the back of his mind, Bilbo was thankful for the cold that the hill’s peak provided. The misty droplets that hung in the air soothed his heated brow and offered encouragement to the hobbit to keep pressing on. 

He pulled himself atop the smooth platform of the fort’s floor, grateful for the solid footing. Torpidly, he gathered his feet beneath him and rose to his full, meager height only to face the backplate of a bulky orc. 

Nearly stumbling fom surprise, Bilbo clamped his teeth together to swallow the alarmed noise that burst from his lungs like the leap of his fear. He successfully stifled his indication of horror and hardly had time to ease the tension in his shoulders when the tiniest of pebbles dislodged beneath the heel of his backward bound foot. 

Every muscle in the hobbit froze and the orc huffed a breath of the thick air, as if not only the sound had told him of an onlooker’s presence but a scent in the fog as well.

Clanking of poorly constructed armor jingled the warning bells in Bilbo’s senses and he snapped out of his stupor, his hand automatically reaching for his saving grace. 

His fingers frantically jabbed deep into his pocket, rummaging messily to secure a grasp around the trinket he held so dear when the orc hissed out a stinking growl of displeasure. 

Bilbo tutted at himself as he struggled to unearth his savior from the fraying stitches of his vest when a sound like rocks striking one another rang through the dense atmosphere. 

The orc had only just finished seeking the direction of the interruption when a goat bounded down from the floor above and grazed by the hulking monster with a distressed bleat. 

Bilbo took the opportunity to switch his attention to Sting in his scabbard and thrust the blade into the exposed side of the stunned orc, ripping the blade out and sending a ribbon of blood out to soil the goat’s otherwise pristine coat. 

Puffing out breaths with a satisfactory skew to his head, Bilbo made sure the orc fell still to the ground before he took another step forward. He didn’t get far before he heard more orcs coming his way, probably drawn towards the goat’s noisy departure. 

With time to properly fish his ring out, Bilbo gave a final gust of breath before slipping the band onto his finger and vanishing out of sight. 

Needless to say, the rest of his trek up the hill was without much challenge—though no less nerve-wracking. His apprehension only built as he closed in on the dwarves. He came to a stop in sheer terror just as Azog’s bellowing voice made his blood run cold. The bright orbs of Bilbo’s eyes shrank in horror as he spotted Fíli’s body dangling from the pale orc’s clutches. His whimper of sorrow was drowned out by the dwarves’ war cry. 

What was a standstill a mere second ago broke into a wild frenzy as dwarves sprinted into the fort and orcs scattered in pursuit. 

Bilbo chased after Thorin, his heart beating faster than ever before. He narrowly dodged bodies as they lunged from every direction towards the King under the Mountain. His small stature and nimbleness served him well in closing the distance between himself and Thorin, but he did not reach him until he heard the cracking of ice and the splash as something fell in. 

Fearing the worst, Bilbo raced to the top of a rock where the dwarf finally came into view. He breathed a shuddering sigh of relief as the king stood lone atop the crystal ground, his broad shoulders, though rising and falling with heaving breath, squared proudly in victory. 

From his high vantage point, Bilbo could clearly see something pale floating in the river beneath the patches of crusted snow that splotched the ice. With a pang of dread, Bilbo realized it was Azog. But the real dread struck when he saw the almost imperceptible twitch of the orc’s muscles in his disfigured arm.

Thorin’s name was ripped from the hobbit’s throat just as his own grasp shed the golden circlet from his finger. 

Their eyes met for one fragile moment. Thorin must have recognized the pure fright in Bilbo’s voice for he tightened his hold upon his weapon with white knuckled strength but it was too late. 

His scream was filled with unexpected agony as his foot was speared through. He fell to the ground from the orc’s brutal tackle, raising his own sword just in time to bury into the notch of Azog’s blade. 

It was like a bad dream. Bilbo desperately dropped down from the rock, rushing towards his friend with every ounce of strength he had left in him. Yet, no matter how hard he forced his legs to move faster, the impending death of his friend approached in tandem. Tears were blurring his vision as he scrambled towards the fading form of his friend pinned against the ground, for he knew he would not be able to make it in time.

In a flash of whitest gold, Bilbo saw the fuzzy mass of pale flesh ripped apart from the frozen black and dwarven silver. He blinked rapidly with the realization that his tears had played a trick upon his vision, but what he saw was very real. 

None other than the Elvenking stirred from the tackle, the silver eyes burning into the pale orc with defiant fire. 

Their battle was vicious and savage and Bilbo worriedly considered the decision to help, but the stillness of Thorin’s body won his attention. 

“Thorin!” Bilbo cried, hopeful to get any sort of reaction out of the crumpled figure. His heart sank into his gut when no such thing occurred. Instead, Azog himself was roused by the outburst and stalked forwards towards the lying dwarf with murder in his eyes. 

Bilbo sprinted forwards, planting himself before Thorin’s bleeding foot. 

“You will not touch him!” The hobbit growled out with as much ferocity as he could muster, but all it earned him was a laugh that ate up all his hope. He drew Sting back to protect his dear friend but stood little chance against the brute strength of the orc as he felt his ribs shatter from the blow. 

He was flung out of the way to the side, meeting his stop only by the crushing embrace of hard rock which dug into his already broken chest. 

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open at a scream from behind. 

He did not know when he had closed his eyes, just that he felt terribly cold and could no longer feel his hands nor feet. With a sick churn in his throbbing gut, he could feel the warmth literally drip from his broken side. Every rivulet of blood stole his grasp on reality, his faint and shallow breathing matching the stabs of agony in his ribs. 

A power suddenly came over him. An automatic response controlling his thoughts and snapping the hobbit out of his daze. It tugged at his arms, reminding him of his unfinished task. It robbed him of all feeling, adrenaline fueling the hobbit to a numbing crawl as he dragged himself towards the prone figure still left on the ice.

Bilbo was repeating Thorin’s name like a mantra, unable to even remember another word to say. His lips never opened to speak these words out loud, but Bilbo could tell no difference in his panicked state. 

His hand clung onto the cuff of Thorin’s coat. A fondness came over Bilbo from the depths of his mind at the unkingly, ragged cloak in his grasp. He remembered, and wasn’t certain why now of all times, the gleaming, ornate armor Thorin had donned before Bilbo stole away the Arkenstone in the night. The way the lavishness of the metal almost gave the king a look of cheapness under its suffocating weight. The way the gold had reflected in those usually so clearly blue eyes and dulled their color. 

It made him undeniably happy to see a fragment of his true friend in the plain dwarf before him. Stripped of all pomp and embellishment. More a king now than he ever appeared with a crown upon his head. 

“Wake up,” Bilbo’s eyes swelled from the ember of hope that burned so carefully within. A hope that had barely survived the cold, icy water of heartbreak and betrayal at seeing his friend fade day by day, taken over by an uncontrollable greed. 

“You cannot rest, not yet,” Bilbo whined as the tears streamed faster than his life from his wound. “You are not yet home, Thorin,” his sob wracked his body and slowly the strength he had felt before was rapidly blossoming into agony. 

“Your home lies just beyond,” Bilbo shook the boneless arm in his grasp until he could not stop the shivering of his whole, tiny frame. “It is waiting for you,” he breathed pain. 

His tear-streaked face leaned over the fallen king’s chest and Bilbo scrunched his eyes closed as he broke down completely. Heart-break and suffering spilled from his lips freely as the hobbit could no longer withstand the brokenness he felt. 

Had it not been for the wetness of his tears he would have missed the sensation of a cool breath against his cheek. 

Bilbo felt himself collapse. No shred of energy left to hold back the joy that bubbled from his heart into a shattered laugh, his russet curls crumpled into the crook of a green tunic as he fell back. A smile on his face as he blacked out with the strike of a tear against his forehead from above. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo’s side of the story to fill in some of the pieces. Even more to be explained and revealed in the next chapter.


	4. The Discovery

Tauriel adjusted her hold on the unconscious dwarf’s shoulder. Warm blood seeped through the wound between her fingers, and urged her to hurry. Her own limp made matters difficult and her bruised side from the harsh encounter with Bolg made her wince with every step, but she would not let Kíli die while she still drew breath. 

She yelped in pain as she leapt down from the broken staircase, swiftly making her way down the hill when she heard a scream.

It was a sound she had only ever heard that voice make once before and it made her heart lurch with horrible trepidation. 

Even more urgent in her speed, the red-haired elleth sprang over the rubble to make it to the river and stopped in her tracks.

She could feel movement against her chest and saw that Kíli was roused by the sudden stillness. He gave a questioning look up at Tauriel only to follow her gaze downriver to where he saw the golden-haired archer from Mirkwood standing at the edge of the waterfall, unmoving, save for the most subtle of trembles in his shoulders. His eyes darted to the two others upon the snow-topped land and immediately thrashed out of Tauriel’s arms. 

Tauriel was too shocked to protest at the dreary scene until Legolas suddenly broke his stationary watch to rush over to the hobbit as well who suddenly crumpled with a weak laugh. 

“Legolas!” She ran over as fast as her leg would allow her, catching up with Kíli on the way and providing a shoulder to support the struggling dwarf who continued towards his uncle’s still body with the determination of a moth to a flame. 

“No, no, no,” Kíli whispered beneath his breath, his eyes already blood-shot and swollen from the sorrow of his brother’s death. “Uncle,” he gasped out, falling to his knees at Thorin’s side, hands caught between clutching at any part of him in reach and ghosting over the bleeding wound in his chest. 

His hand cupped the side of his cheek affectionately and Kíli breathed a relieved sigh at the warmth he felt there. “He’s still alive! He needs help!” He announced to anyone who would hear him. Thankfully, Tauriel was quick to respond, reaching out to test Thorin’s temperature herself and feel the ghost of his breath upon the back of her hand. 

“He is weak. We must get him to the healers at once,” she was already getting to her feet, gently positioning Thorin to sit as she wrapped a strong but gentle arm around his back and beneath his arm. Kíli brought his uncle’s arm behind his head and over his shoulders, hissing in pain as his wound pressed painfully against the weight of his uncle’s unconscious body. 

“Legolas, please. We need your help—“ the words left her lips before she could settle her eyes upon the sheen on his smooth face. 

He looked utterly devoid of emotion. A bleakness had stripped his eyes of their normal, vivid glow. The strong-willed and wild prince was closed behind a glimmering wall of tears, and for a moment, Tauriel could not recognize him. 

She knew it was his scream he had heard. Knew that the only other time he had ever lost all control was the day his mother had died. But his eyes had shone with sadness then. Horrible, agonizing sorrow and loss but something familiar. 

This. Tauriel did not know this. 

“Tauriel, we must hurry,” Kíli pleaded. And Kíli was right. Thorin’s life, though spared for now, was still in a battle against time. Any more wasted moments and the King under the Mountain was sure to lose. 

“Legolas,” she gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. He stirred at the contact, another tear rolling off the cut of his jaw. He blinked and rose from his knees, Bilbo’s tiny form carefully hauled over his shoulder with one arm securely wrapped around his waist, fingers carefully avoiding the broken flesh of his ribs. 

Wordlessly, he lifted Thorin’s legs from off the ground with his other arm and led the three down the hill.

A cold breeze rolled up the hillside to meet them and Legolas was grateful that the wind was the only witness to the tears he continued to shed all the way down the slope. 

~

The battle had been catastrophic. Each side took devastating losses, but in the end dwarves, men, and elves prevailed. 

The dwarves kept the main forces between Dale and Erebor busy but truly drove them back at the arrival of Beorn and the eagles. 

The men defended Dale bravely with the help of Gandalf. 

The elves had been led up to Ravenhill to control the onslaught of goblins from the South by Legolas and Tauriel. Once it seemed like they could keep the enemy at bay, Tauriel had splintered off to find Kíli, and Legolas sought his father. 

Any remaining enemy forces had fled to seek shelter in the far reaches of Dol Guldor and Angmar. 

Now Legolas, Tauriel, and Kíli found themselves approaching Dale’s gates and the remaining forces of the elven army quickly came to their aid. Pairs of elves took the wounded with great care, delivering them swiftly to the medical tents already set up at the encampment from the night before. Kíli followed his uncle, never letting him out of his sight. Dwalin and Balin both spotted the prince and hurriedly caught up with him. 

Gandalf sluggishly walked with the help of his staff, quirking an eyebrow at the sight of Bilbo and Thorin being carried towards the healing quarters. The passing was brief, but the wizard was calmed by his keen, ever-knowing notion. He did not think either life was in danger for now. 

He had seen his dearest burglar. He knew Bard to be fine, having fought alongside the man for most of the battle. He had one king accounted for. Now where was the other?

His wisened eyes found Legolas who seemed to tersely respond to the remainder of the elven army who gathered around their prince with looks of puzzlement and confusion. He recognized Galion, one of Thranduil’s captains, step forward and heard raised voices as Legolas in turn took a step back and then dashed towards Ravenhill without another word, twenty elves hot on his heels. 

Tauriel had fallen to her knees, her face hidden behind her trembling hands.

Galion looked stricken and pale-faced. His skin awash with ashen dread. 

As Gandalf wandered closer, he was at last able to make out the Sindarin:

_ “No one speaks a word of this.” _

The elves all paused for a moment, some sharing worrisome glances and looks of disbelief. 

“Is everything alright, Galion?” Gandalf inquired, suspicion resting on his brow as he leaned against his staff, angling his bearded chin up to scan the captain’s face as it jolted into composure. 

Almost immediately, the elves turned and dispersed to attend to whatever business they had previously set out to do before the disruption. Some still carried the utter shock upon their countenance but quickly hid their faces beneath the shadow of their helmets. 

Gandalf tapped his finger against the twisted wood. 

“We are… tired,” Galion spoke truthfully. The elf was at least clever enough not to outright lie, but Mithrandir’s wariness only grew. “We have suffered many losses and are still finding more scattered across the battlefield. I suspect our spirits will not be high for some time.” 

Gandalf hummed in concurrence.

Galion swallowed thickly and turned to walk away when the wizard cleared his throat. 

“My burglar.”

Galion’s brows furled. “Sorry?”

“The hobbit. He came down from that mountain gravely wounded.”

Galion’s features tightened. 

“I don’t suppose you know what happened to them up there?”

At this, Galion’s facade faltered slightly. Something, almost akin to resentment came over his eyes in a twitch of his brow and a shadow in his eyes. “He is not the only one who has suffered on that hill.”

With that, the captain dipped his head in a respectful but closing demeanor. Gandalf would not get more out of him but he doubted he required any further information. 

Something happened to the Elvenking on that hill and he had a horrible feeling it did not end well. 

Seemingly recovered from his laggard state, Gandalf marched towards the healing tents. There was one particular burglar who could fill in the pieces and he would wait patiently for him to awaken. 

~ 

Kíli paced anxiously outside the tent that housed his uncle. He was told he was to remain outside so that the healers could conduct their treatments unbothered and uninterrupted. He swatted away any that questioned him of the wound on his shoulder until the company slowly gathered together around the distressed prince.

“Lad, you need this to be looked at,” Balin gently urged the stubborn dwarf. Kíli did not respond in kind.

“It is nothing! Uncle needs all the help we can spare. I will survive this!” 

“Look, laddy. That looks to be a nasty gash. Wouldn’t put it past those filthy orcs to dip their blades in some festering shite to make sure they kill yeh,” Dwalin poked at the bloodied mess as if to emphasize his point, eliciting a hiss of annoyance and hurt from the owner. 

“Maybe if you’d all stop smothering me and poking at it it would heal on its own!” 

Dwalin rolled his eyes at the young dwarf’s insolence. He had a good heart, the lad, but he was always one to make stupid, grand gestures for no reason—especially at the risk of his own health. 

“Bofur, talk some sense into him!”

Straightening his furred hat, the ends bounced with his step as the mustachioed dwarf offered Kíli a kind smile. “He’ll be fine for the few moments they need to patch you up. We’ll all wait here and let you know the second he wakes up. You can count on us.” 

Kíli’s shoulders dropped, his headstrong act replaced wholly by misery. “Not all of us.”

Dwalin lowered his gaze. 

Ten troubled faces peered curiously between the two. They seemed to acknowledge the meaning of the words and all quickly glanced around the group, taking into account who they saw standing there—and who they did not. 

“Fíli..” Ori’s quiet voice piped up. “Where is he?” 

“Did they not take him to a tent, too?” Bifur looked wildly from face to face, nervously bringing his fingers to the dent in his head where the missing axe would be. 

Balin stepped forward, grabbing Dwalin, who avoided everyone’s gaze, by the shoulders. “Where is he? Where is the boy?” he beseeched. 

Dwalin couldn’t contain the wrack of sorrow and shame that ran through him. He brought a hand to his brow, hopelessly shielding his guilt-shined eyes. “I couldn’t protect him…”

Kíli broke, hearing the vulnerability in the usually stout dwarf’s voice. “I have to go back there.” 

He started with a lunge, the crowd of dwarves forming a barricade around the young prince whose face had turned pallid. “Please, I can’t leave him up there!” He yelled at his company, sobbing into their arms as he finally came to terms with the fact they were not going to let him pass and his knees no longer garnered the strength to argue. 

As if drawn by the clamor, Dáin Ironfoot announced his presence with a booming “what’s going on here?” The dwarflord strode forward with the clanking of his heavy armor, his guards flanking behind. 

Kíli wiped at his eyes, though it did little to hide his distress. Dwalin also made an attempt to compose himself but could only bare to face the ground. 

Dáin looked questioningly from dwarf to dwarf, raising his fiery brows in befuddlement as not a one spoke a word. His ruddy features softened at the solemn quietness that was so uncommon for his kind. He knew such grave behavior could mean only one thing.

He dashed forward, his beard touching Balin’s as he searched the other for any sign of confirmation. “Is….Is it Thorin?”

Balin blinked in surprise, temporarily taken aback. “No!” He blurted. “No, the king is safe.”

Dáin nodded his head, heaving a sigh. “Well..” he strained. “Who is it then?”

This time, Dwalin spoke up. “Fíli, my lord,” he sniffled. “He...uhh..” he willed his voice to strengthen, but the trembling would not be hidden. “He was slain atop that hill,” he wailed. 

Ori and any other within reach of Dwalin gave the sobbing dwarf a comforting hand on his broad shoulders and back, most struggling to contain their own despair at the admission. 

Dáin clenched his burly hands into fists, his face crumpling and turning blotchy red. “I swear to hunt down every last one of ‘em and make ‘em wish they’d never crossed the might of dwarves!” his voice hollered through the air with such conviction it silenced the entire encampment as every creature stopped at the declaration. 

He stepped forward and clapped a hand down on Kíli’s good shoulder, squeezing with dwarvish vigor. “I vow I will bring that lad back to us where he belongs so we can lay him to rest under the mountain with his family.” 

Kíli’s lip trembled as he bowed his head, his resolve at last breaking. 

“I’m going, too,” Dwalin sidestepped the embraces of his comrades, facing Dáin as each dipped their head in respect. 

“Let’s go then.”

~

The sun was far into setting by the time Dáin and Dwalin reached the top of Ravenhill. The goats and Dáin’s boar made quick work of the ruins, scaling the fort and reaching the platform that Dwalin and Thorin had witnessed the horrendous act just hours before. 

Dáin’s guards began the process of finding a route down to where Fíli’s body had fallen. Dwalin was busying himself with schooling his distraught features as the terrible event replayed in his head over and over. He guided his goat to follow the guards down the steps, unable to linger in this cursed place for more time than he needed.

Dáin hung back, his scowl ever-present as he thought about the amount of dwarf blood spilled over their homeland. Where once these places had teemed with life and dwarven pride, were now stained by death. 

So much loss. 

_ Yes,  _ Dáin swore.  _ Never again would dwarves fall beneath the hand of another. They were here to stay.  _ And he would strike down anyone who dared oppose them. 

His boar snorted at the distant voices coming from the other side of the fort. Dáin gave another glance towards Dwalin and his guard who were still continuing down the decline, trying to discern a path through the winding fort where they could safely retrieve the young prince. 

He spurred his boar towards the voices with a strong kick of his heels. The swine gave a grunt and moved its hooves down the uneven terrain towards the river. 

Rounding the corner, Dáin could see no one. The sky was a dark purple as the last rays of the winter sun sank below the horizon. In this twilight, the white of the snow glowed with cool radiance.

The boar stopped near the edge of the waterfall, snorting in recognition of completing its task. Dáin dismounted and cautiously approached the slick cliff. 

Tiny dots below moved like ants along the Celduin. Though he couldn’t make out any defining features, between the foreign shouts and the agility of the creatures below as they skipped across the ice, Dáin was fairly confident they were elves. But why elves were fanning out and searching down the River Running, Dáin could not quite understand. 

He humphed a breath and gave a disparaging thought about the doings of elves and was about to turn away when something shimmered beneath his feet. 

He cautiously lifted the toe of his boot off what appeared to be a golden thread. 

Curious, he leaned down and plucked the strand from the ice where it had been frozen in place. He brought it eye-level with the fading light in the far distance. The light dancing along the edge with brilliant streaks of whitest gold. 

A hair. 

And it didn’t take much thought to guess whose head it had belonged to. 

Another shout from down river and Dáin’s eyes widened as he finally pieced it together. 

An incredulous sound blew from his lips, the dwarflord taking a few steps back, the hair still catching wind between his stocky fingers. 

_ The Elvenking...was gone? Fallen to the depths below? _

He let it go with fascination, watching as the gust carried it gracefully towards the riverbank before it rose up into the dark sky and disappeared from sight. 

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with this newfound information, but the fact that the elves were in an even weaker state than he had previously surmised brought a satisfied curl to Dáin’s lips. This could be good news for Erebor who could use all help, and leverage if need be, to rebuild. 

He chortled richly at his fortune, sauntering over to his mount who seemed interested in something sitting upon the ice. He gave the boar a hefty pat on the shoulder at the display. 

“Whatever it is, it’s not food. Nothin’ edible grows up here, sweetheart. Though I gotta admire your perseverance,” he howled at his own comments. When the hog did not move away from the object of its unwavering attention, Dáin gave an exasperated sigh. 

“Oh, bugger off ya daft thing!” he gave the boar a firm push receiving a startled squeal in response. 

And that was when he saw it. 

Not unlike the Elvenking’s hair, the gold band shone against the crystal snow. Yet, this treasure did not yield in its brilliance even after the sun had wholly left the sky. Even in almost complete darkness, the ring called out to Dáin. It beckoned him to reach down and cradle it in his palm. To marvel at the light that spread to his flesh as he turned the ring over and over in his grasp. To feel its solid, comforting weight. Bade him to remember this feeling. Told him that he should never lose this sensation, lest he risked chasing after it for all eternity. 

The ring told him many things. But most importantly, it told him that it was his. And his alone. 

And so Dáin stooped to pick the curious thing up. He turned it thrice in his hand and tested the weight. 

He turned to his boar, another laugh of disbelief cutting the night air. “Well, lookie here. Ya didn’t find grass but I dare say you found something much more valuable.”

He chuckled, admiring the glow of the gold against his calloused palm. 

“Something far more  _ precious _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go~!


	5. The Fall

The thunderous roar swallowed Thranduil whole. He felt his whole body pulled against his will, as if the earth had erupted and carried him with her escaping scream. The bone-bending shock of the force rendered the elf’s sight pitch black, and the only thing he could hear was the whistling, like a hurricane, pitching higher and higher in his tipped ears.

He could not see anything but what he knew to be tricks—triggered memories by the perilous helplessness he had no choice but to succumb to. He saw the blackness morph into a terrifying figure. A great, terrible beast reared its ugly head and stared down the frozen silver eyes, pinned like a stuck arrow. 

Thranduil would have lost his breath had he found any air left in his lungs. The horrific visage of the wyrm lunged forth, glued to the Elvenking’s vision like the tears on his lashes. 

He knew it was an illusion. A haunting image of one of his most buried memories, but it felt all too real. 

He whipped past the gnarled, blackened trees of the Withered Heath. Scorched land smoldered at the edges of his sight, stretching far and wide above his head as he continued to plummet. 

The ringing in his head pulsed with detached dissonance, like a far away geyser. The heat rose to the left-side of his face, tingling with sickening anticipation as the deafening sound wailed at a volume so great, the Elvenking could feel his blood tremble. 

The dragon coiled its long, powerful neck. A deathly warmth awoke from the bottom of its belly, spreading like ignited oil up the reaches of it’s springing maw until all at once—everything was silent. 

The world collided and combined. 

Torturous heat enveloped Thranduil’s face, leaving a scream to die in his empty lungs and drown in the pure white that engulfed him. Then unforgiving cold. 

His shoulder snapped as it slammed into the ice, a desperate gurgle for the breath to shriek ripped from his throat. 

His broken body fought madly for life as he felt the surge of the river yank him down. His head dunked under the surface, the ice above blocking all light but a ghostly blue luminance. 

He pounded his shattered arm against the wall trapping him beneath as the swirling current dragged him farther from hope. 

His chest spasmed with frantic need to breathe. Fighting to keep his eyes open as he frantically searched for any sign of escape, his tears joined the River Running

The river’s strength only built as the elf was dropped down a steep decline. He saw the dark shapes of rocks pass overhead until the rays of sunlight grew stronger and stronger in brilliant shades of teal. The fuzzy sounds of rapids approached. 

The patches of bright cerulean blurred to a deathly kaleidoscope as the Elvenking found his arms weakening by the second. Scrabbling his frozen fingers with the wildness of a dying flame, Thranduil summoned all his remaining strength as he curled his legs up towards his chest against the will of the water. 

The static of the waterfall reached its crescendo, and Thranduil chose that moment to kick out his legs with all the force he could muster. 

Immediately, he heard the crack of the thinned ice and felt the harsh jerk at his compromised ankle as the river pummeled against his caught form. The pain was enough to involuntarily part the elf’s lips. His only reward was the frigid water that invaded his lungs with a rush he couldn’t combat. 

Instinctively, he huffed out and inhaled more of the relentless, freezing water, unable to stop his body’s inherent response. 

His faculties completely shutdown, leaving the Elvenking blindly reaching for his trapped ankle, struggling to compete against the wrath of the Celduin. 

He felt the ice dig into the folding bone of his ankle as he choked on his surroundings. Then a particularly fearsome current caused his footing to treacherously slip.

Spurned on with one last desperate attempt to survive, Thranduil thrust his head forward, his hands numbly grabbing hold of his own calf and risking the soundness of his own torn body to pull himself up.

His ankle felt like it had caught dragonfire, swelling to a painful degree within the unyielding confines of his boot as he continued to hoist himself to the surface. 

He tried to swing his other arm out to his anchored limb, but the appendage only throbbed with deep agony. 

Beyond the ability to think rationally or control the devastating wracks that convulsed his body, Thranduil flailed like a wounded animal. His free leg bruised at the shin as it struck solid ground, but he was past pain. 

He kicked again and again, his hand only finding the conviction to cling onto his armor from the freezing temperature that hardened his tendons and locked his knuckles in place. His toes struck ice again.

He thrashed and fought with all his waning might, then his body began to close in on itself. He felt the morbid comfort of all feeling leave his extremities, ebbing towards his heart like a restful blanket. How tempting it would be. To just let it go. To end the struggle and just relax. It was so hard to live. 

So peaceful to die. 

Another gush of water. He felt his foot drop an inch more as the ice gave way. 

He vaguely recognized the dull vibration of his leg striking the surface just as his body slipped from its hold. He tried to scrunch his eyelids tighter closed when a blinding light cracked across his face 

The creaks sounded ominous beneath the waves as the swell shoved the elf up from the current and into the open. 

The second his face broke the water, the Elvenking heaved. The muscles of his diaphragm contracted so violently he nearly lost consciousness. 

He could not open his eyes while his body exerted every effort available to expel the water deep in his lungs and greedily gulp as much air as possible. 

Innately, he came alive with every agonizing gasp of breath and paddled. He did not know which direction the riverbank was, but he was not able to withstand the instinctual terror that gripped his mind at the battering deluge that continued to punish him. 

The elf mindlessly worked his way through the broken shards of ice that flowed down the river until his unsteady hand grasped onto the stable face of rock. The process of pulling himself onto safety was arduous and exhaustive. He was without use of one arm and the slickness of the stone’s surface made Thranduil’s stomach flip with horrible unease and despair. 

He pressed the side of his face to the cool touch, curling his neck under his chest and straining with clenched teeth to lift his leg out of the relentless water. 

His yell was weak and overflowing with hurt, but at last the Elvenking was able to raise his leg from the frothy white of the rapids and onto the rock. He stiffly rolled the rest of his weight to lay upon the blunt ground, his chest rising and falling in shaky, uneven breaks. 

He felt as though he would never catch his breath again. Nor would the drumming of his sluggish pulse leave from his skull. 

He wheezed another breath, thinking he could care only about submitting to the overwhelming desire to rest. Drenched to his very soul and still in the throes of throbbing hurt, Thranduil found little resolve to argue. 

He had just managed to suck in another breath when a warg’s howl sent his eyes flying open. 

Barely succeeding to lift his head above the ground, Thranduil’s tired eyes honed in on the signs of movement through the trees. 

His mind was lethargic, but he forced his thoughts to formulate. He considered his chances of survival if he fled back into the Celduin. Though the current would definitely sweep him away to escape the orcs, he was wise enough to acknowledge the suffering his body had endured. There was no power left in him to stay afloat and survive the ceaseless waves. 

Obviously, running was out of the question. And as much as he hated to admit, he wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight either. It would be more akin to offering himself to the hideous wretches on a silver platter.

No. His only viable option was to hide. He wouldn’t be able to move fast in his condition, but any place was more advantageous than out in the open among the rocks. 

Flipping himself over and praying his armor wasn’t creating too much noise, Thranduil began to drag himself towards the tall, brown weeds that danced with a breeze. He was thankful that for the time being he was upwind. 

The wargs’ howls grew sharper by the second. 

There was a good chance the orcs were retreating, in which case the fastest route to Dol Guldor was through the trees. However, the stomps of the beasts only drew nearer and nearer which told Thranduil these orcs were not looking for a way out. They were looking for some  _ thing _ . 

Despite the winter’s breath, a sheen of perspiration arose above the Elvenking’s dark brows. He pressed his purple lips together, ignoring the burning of his muscles as he edged towards his cover. 

Once he reached the weeds, he immediately set upon finding any sort of improvement to his situation. The grass was tall, but from a warg’s back he was sure to be spotted if they got too close. 

His head darted from left to right, his teeth baring with frustration at his glum predicament. Platinum hair fell from his shoulder in a wetted clump as he looked over his mashed shoulder. 

There. A thicket of bushes. Though barren from any leaves that would ideally obscure his prone form, the combination of the reeds and branches were enough to give him hope. 

He had just turned himself around when another rumbling bark alerted him of the orcs’ worrying proximity. They were nearly at the river’s edge. 

Calling upon Eru’s grace, Thranduil quickly gathered his legs under him into a stumbling run, crouched low to the safety of the bushes. He collapsed behind their protection, his head smacking the cold dirt and willing his breathing to quiet. 

Two wargs growled at each other as the riders jerked them to a stop. Mud squashed beneath the orcs’ heavy feet as they dismounted and scampered to the riverside. 

One gave a nasty hiss. 

_ “No sign here either.” _

_ “We’ll find ‘im,” _ a gravelly voice sneered. “ _ Even if it’s just pieces.”  _

_ “Must be down the river.” _

Feet hurriedly moved, treading from the solid tops of rocks back to the sludgy earth. 

Thranduil’s eyes couldn’t make out more than shadows of movement from behind the brush, but he was encouraged by the sight of the riders climbing back atop their mounts. 

Then something white blocked them out.

_ “Wait.” _

Thranduil stilled. No. It couldn’t be. The voice sounded different. More faint but no less malicious. 

A warg was sniffing deeply at something upon the stones. 

Thranduil’s hand shot up to his shoulder, fingers sinking between his armor. He pulled the hand overtaken with tremors in front of his face and shuddered at the slick red that shined back. 

_ “Elf blood,”  _ that awful voice stated with unrestrained malevolence. 

As if on cue, the white warg snapped it’s jaws with a predatory snarl and followed the trail of blood undeniably towards the source. 

Thranduil rid himself of the paralyzing fear that reached out for him. He would not let himself be captured. If death was to come for him, it would be by his own choice. 

He bolted from the thicket, sprinting as fast as he could towards the river. Though not far by normal means, Thranduil had yet to make it halfway there before he could feel the warg’s hot breath against his back. 

His keen senses spiked with warning as he careened just in time to avoid the bite. The beast’s teeth clicked together with primal ferocity, an excited huff flaring its nostrils as it pursued its prey.

His dodge had saved him fangs, but it did not spare him defeat. 

The rider astride the warg’s back brought his fist squarely into Thranduil’s injured shoulder, bringing the Elvenking to the ground. 

His body screamed at him as the air was knocked from his lungs for what seemed the millionth time that day. Thranduil recognized the signs of fraying consciousness and realized it was to be his last. 

Just before the blackness took over him, the silver eyes watched the pale orc’s slumped figure. His only remaining hand was cradling the stab wound which glistened. The glowing blue blade clenched tightly in his grasp, it’s luminosity only partially hidden behind the streaks of black. He looked haggard and the fierceness in his phantom-like eyes had fizzled out like dying embers. Only a shadow of it was left. 

And so the Elvenking relaxed into the cold embrace of the void. A defiant curl in his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun.


	6. The King

A day spent with war and blood set with a red sun. The hours spent clamoring for life now drew on with solemn hush. Stoked fires burned, like scattered fireflies across the cantonment. Beneath the pale blue moon, shadows passed to and fro with heaviness in their steps. 

The dwarves had settled within the great walls of the reclaimed mountain, a healthy orange hue poking out from between the broken stones of the destroyed barricade. Guards watched from atop the ramparts, though they sat wearily upon their posts. 

The men had taken refuge in Dale, using whatever walls still stood to shield against the winter night that curled its icy fingers around every tremulous shoulder. They huddled in groups, strangers too stricken to argue and minds too tired to care. 

The elves were gracious and spared tents where they could to the shivering men. Their flesh was not as chilled by the sun’s slumber and there were more shelters than elves remaining. And even less who could find the will to sleep. 

Among the brightest lights on the battlefield was the ward for the injured. The lanterns burned away the darkness, illuminating the elves that travelled back and forth from tent to tent. In their arms, bushels of herbs and wads of bloodied cloth were transported well into the late hours without a sign of stopping. 

On occasion, a cot with a lain figure would join the parade of healers to the far boundary of the barracks. But unlike the unabated workers, it would not return. 

A puff of smoke arose from just outside a canvas flap that parted as a mender made his exit, a damp, crimson splotched rag in hand. 

Gray, wiry hair tickled the neck of the wooden pipe as the wizard eyed the cloth with a wary look. Several hours now, the bandages had come away bloody. The only comfort Gandalf found was that the red wraps had lessened to mere spots, but his burglar was a tiny thing and he feared what hardship his little body had undergone. 

The feeling in his gut reassured him that he had nothing to be afraid of, but it still did not keep him from worrying for his dear friend. To know someone suffered was never a pleasant thing and Gandalf was oh so fond of Bilbo of Bag End. 

To think just weeks ago that curly-haired hobbit who had worked himself up over an awol handkerchief was now nursing three broken ribs and a concussion. He had even had a smile plastered on his face when they first carried him to the ward. 

He had known it though. Inside Bilbo Baggins’s sheltered heart was a spitfire adventurer. And just as he had promised, he would never be the same. 

Gandalf’s chuckle was born more out of astonishment than amusement, but he chuckled all the same. 

He was coughing the wayward smoke from out his lungs when he heard activity behind the rows of tents. 

~

It was well into the early morning hours when Legolas and the searching party returned to camp. It had not been by the Prince’s choice to call off the investigation, but beaten down by the relentless battle and discouraged by the shadows that masked the land, he found himself acquiescing with a stiff dip of his head. 

The elves, already awake and alert from terrible apprehension, flocked to the blonde-haired archer. They formed with the discipline of a king’s summons in complete, utter silence. 

The quiet only mounted at the continued absence of their king. 

Galion’s tawny head waded through the crowd, his eyes doing one, definite sweep over the arriving party. 

_“Nothing?”_ he whispered with despair. 

Legolas dropped his chin to face the ground, his hands balled into fists and held tautly at his sides. The muscles of his neck strained against the moon’s beam. 

A black-haired guard at his side answered in his stead. _“The ice was broken at the bottom but only grew stronger downstream,”_ the voice trailed. _“We found no sign of his survival.”_

Legolas’s head snapped up with a wild twitch. _“He is still alive!”_ he hissed through his teeth. Blue irises smoldered with unwavering conviction. _“Mirkwood still thrums with spirit. Have you not felt the same?”_ his words pleaded, begged any that heard them to believe. 

Galion’s eyes fell away, almost a look of shame adorning his grave features. He wanted so desperately to agree with the young Prince and give into this folly that Thranduil was still out there, but the fact of the matter was that he wasn’t. Being a kingsguard meant he had taken an oath to protect his king, but above all else, he swore to defend his home. His people who stood gathered around his shoulders. Exhausted and fatigued, but very much alive. Very much _here_. 

He had to tell himself the Elvenking would understand. That he would do the same. 

_“Nin Cóon, our people are grieving. We must lay our brothers and sisters to rest. We must respect their journey to the Halls of Mandos,”_ Galion’s lips stammered to proceed as his eyes combed the youth’s expression. _“We cannot delay this.”_

Legolas stiffened. The archer glanced from one downcast face to another, his eyes roving over the sight of his men who respectfully awaited his response. He shook his head before he could even find the words to say.

_“I regret asking so much of you, but I would like you to begin the preparations of the funeral this morning. I will help when I return from my search tomorrow night—“_

_“Nin Cóon!”_ The exclamation was sharp and surprising, but not an elf flinched. _“I know you yearn to see your father. No words could ever describe the pain you must feel, but I beg you—implore you.”_ He paused where he stood, then fell to his knees before the Prince. _“Guide us. Lead your people. Do not abandon them in this time of great sorrow and need._ ” 

His eyes matched the adjuration of his voice. Hurriedly, like an act of desperation, Galion bowed his head, pale wisps of breath curling into the air. _“Do as your father would. Take up your rightful place, nin Cóon.”_

Every elf followed suit, lowering onto one knee and bowing with a manner of utmost esteem. 

The act pinched the nerves around the Prince’s eyes. It was a display his father had told him stories about. He could almost hear him now, the warm, rich tone filling his head with fond memories. 

_‘One day, nin las arimelda, when you grow even stronger, you will take my seat at the throne and be crowned Aran wa Eryn Galen.” His father’s mirthful and soft laughter was a prized possession. It was a gift for Legolas and his mother alone, a sound that graced no other ears. It filled his heart to hear it, and the pout instantly fell away from his face._

_“There is no need to make such a face, nin réd. It is a joyful thing,” a thoughtful pause, “a wonderful thing.” His father’s brows rose at the unconvinced scrunch on his little one’s face. “You don’t believe me?”_

_“No!” the elfling proclaimed. “Being king sounds boring and dull. All you do is just sit around listening to the council talk forever about things that we should do—but by the time everyone’s finished there’s no daytime left to do anything!” The child crossed his arms, goading any rebuttal on his sound statement._

_A sparkle glinted in his father’s keen eyes as he leaned forward. “Is that all there is to it?”_

_Legolas thought for a moment, then grinned deviously. “Well, I guess kings get to drink a lot, too.”_

_An incredulous laugh left the Elvenking’s lips. “Oh? Do they now?”_

_The youth giggled profusely as long, robed arms swept him off his feet and into his father’s lap, lithe fingers tickling his sides the whole trip._

_“This slander shall not go unpunished!” The command was said in perfect calculated indifference like his father would address his subjects. Though the tone usually struck fear into those on the receiving end, Legolas was privy to the jest of the remark._

_“Stop! That tickles!” the child wheezed from between fits of mad laughter. “Let me go!”_

_The hands paused where they were, that mocking serious quality hovering above his head. “And why should I?”_

_“Because I’m the Prince and I said so!”_

_“Oh, better not then. A prince makes a valuable hostage.”_

_“I’ll call for mom!”_

_“Your threats don’t work on me!” The fingers attacked with renewed vigor._

_Legolas howled with laughter, legs flailing and squirming against the onslaught. “Wait! Wait!” He shouted breathlessly._

_The hands once again stopped. “I’m listening.”_

_“I’ll give you my word that I shall never sully your name with such unbecoming defamation ever again!”_

_And with that, the elfing was deposited safely back on the ground where he promptly collapsed with heaving sides. His father’s crowned-head tipped into view._

_“Congratulations.”_

_Legolas quirked a brow. “What?” he gasped._

_His father’s lips stretched into a smug smirtle. “You just survived your first council meeting. We discussed the problematic effects of reckless claims. It appears bribing, threatening, and brute force all failed. Who knew a promised treaty was exactly the solution we needed?”_

_The child laid dumbstruck on the ornate rug. His father cautiously stepped over and around him, his long, luxurious silver robe pristine despite the struggles earlier. In one fluid motion, the king stooped down to meet his son eye to eye._

_“Now the king is going to get a drink and you, nin Cóon astalda, will say nothing about it.” He cocked an eyebrow as he awaited his owed response._

_Legolas had no choice but to comply with a smile, albeit a defeated one, but one that reflected his adoration all the same._

_“Your word better be good, nin réd,” his father’s voice sang from the doorway._

The memory fell with his tears as every elf knelt before the heir with hope in their eyes. 

_“We will follow you, nin Aran.”_

Legolas didn’t know what was worse. The fact his father was not there to see this moment that he’d always wanted for his son? Or the fact that in order to fulfill his duties he’d have to accept the fact that his father was gone. 

He felt sick to his stomach. This was anything but joyful. Farthest from wondrous. And he’d give anything to debate the matter with his father again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short and sweet but I really enjoyed writing it. I love exploring the relationship between Thranduil and Legolas because so much is left to interpretation. 
> 
> Just FYI - I sometimes write dialogue in italics to symbolize the use of foreign language. So Azog would be speaking in Orkish and any dialogue spoken by an elf in italics is in Sindarin. You’ll notice here that all the dialogue spoken is in italics. This is not a mistake. They are just speaking entirely in Sindarin. I still slipped some elvish terms in there because I felt like it.
> 
> I’ll also occasionally do some flashbacks and those will be entirely in italics. The context should make the switch clear but let me know if it’s confusing at all!
> 
> Lots of Elvish in here—forgive me if I’m erroneous with the vocabulary. I tried my best to research but I’m no expert. 
> 
> Nin cóon - my prince  
> Nin Réd - my son  
> Las - leaf  
> arimelda - dearest  
> astalda - strong
> 
> So “nin las arimelda” translates to my dearest leaf.


	7. The Voice

After more adamant requests and chastisement for his foolish behavior, Kíli resigned himself to the lonely makeshift cot where he awaited the healer. The whole five minute journey there, he was accompanied—but more precisely herded—towards the tent by his mothering companions. Balin especially. The elder dwarf had wisened with the paleness of his beard, but he was often fraught with worries and obligations to look after the company. 

Kíli suspected Balin was particularly hyperactive lately because of his Uncle. He always doted after Thorin; it was a side effect of knowing the royal dwarf since his birth. He had watched him grow, taught him how to be a better dwarf, and witnessed him come into his own as King under the Mountain. It was arguable Balin knew Thorin better than any other dwarf living, aside from Kíli’s mother. Perhaps that is why Balin seemed so on edge since Mirkwood. 

The black-haired archer could recall little during that cursed journey through the forest. It was like trying to remember the first night of _Ghuregbuzramerag_ — impossible if you were celebrating the right way. Kíli sighed in wistful content at the thought of the Deep Ale Fest. It was a favorite summertime holiday of the young heir. Now that they had finally taken back their home, perhaps in a few years Erebor would be built back up and they could host the Harnkegger Games here. He wondered how the ale would differ in taste to those in Ered Luin. He swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling parched.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” an olive-skinned elf glided in through the entryway, herbs and bandages in tow. 

“It’s really nothing,” Kíli blurted and had to stop himself from spouting his reluctance for taking up his time. He could picture Balin’s knobby nose moving side to side as the dwarf shook his head with that perfected disappointment. Dwarves weren’t subtle folk and seldom relied on their facial expressions to do the talking, but Balin was an exception. For as long as he’d known him, the dwarf had a quiet grace about him that set him apart. Well, and maybe Ori. Still, quite the mystery among his boisterous kin. 

The elf made no response and remained silent while he studied Kíli’s injury and briefly investigated for anymore hiding beneath his worn clothes. When it was clear what required attention and what could be ignored, the elf began his work.

Kíli made an attempt to remove his torn shirt but his effort was hindered by the clinical grasp on his wrist. The hand raised his arm above his head while the other began to gather the shirt to his underarm. In one fluid and painless motion, the elf lifted the bunched cloth along the length of the lifted arm until he could slip the dwarf’s hand through the sleeve entirely, leaving the gash on his shoulder undisturbed and exposed. 

The elf made a thoughtful noise paired with the arch of an umber brow. “Any lower and you would’ve bled to death.” 

Kíli’s throat dried with tingling itches. “Guess I got all the luck today.”

The healer paused for a moment, almost as if he agreed with grim consideration. “Still, you lost a lot of blood and the cut is deep. I will clean the wound and staunch any further bleeding but you must rest for several days for your body to properly mend.” 

The youth’s eyes widened at the statement. “Several _days_? Can’t you put it in a sling?”

“Your skin is pallid and I can tell you are fatigued. If you remain on your feet for much longer you’ll get light-headed and injure yourself more,” the words were said very matter-of-factly and Kíli found it harder to refuse the arguments building on his tongue. 

He probably would have made a scene of things; belittling the stone-faced elf for no deserved reason other than his hurt, stubborn pride had it not been for the locks of auburn hair that ducked into view. 

“Oh, Kíli, there you are,” her smile instantly soothed any spite from his chest. 

“Tauriel,” he breathed into a grin. “Where have you been?

The Silvan elf batted the question away with a shake of her head, “it is nothing. I’ve been looking all over for you. I had to ask your group of friends to find you.” 

Kíli chuckled with a sigh. “Yes, I was practically dragged here by them.”

“Well, I suppose I should thank them again,” Tauriel took his hand in hers. It was the first time Kíli genuinely took notice of his condition. Against her warm, honey skin he could see how pale he was in contrast. When normally their touch would ignite the other, he could only feel his palm tremble as it greedily stole away the heat. She must have noticed, too, as she began to rub her hands over the cool flesh of his fingers and wrist. 

His face must have told of his realization, for he shared a glance with the mender and the elf guided him to properly rest on the cot. Once firmly situated in his new reluctant residence for the next few days, the elf’s ministrations began in earnest. 

His shoulder was washed with careful, lukewarm wipes and then disinfected with a concoction that smelled of honey and burned like needles. Once Kíli had stopped hissing and the elf seemed satisfied, the gash was dabbed dry with a clean cloth and then dressed with herbs, salves, and finally bandages. 

The entire process had been accompanied by low mutterings beneath the elf’s breath as he tended to the puncture. It was not unlike the miracle he had witnessed Tauriel perform that night in Laketown. It was a fond memory—not just for the fact he at that moment had understood who he was meant to be with, but for the window into the mystical world of the elves as well. He had grown up hearing stories of the magic they possessed, but he had never seen it with his own eyes. Not until that day. He doubted his fascination would ever quell when he had the privilege to witness it firsthand. 

“Try to keep still and rest. You will need time to heal,” the dark-haired elf repeated with emphasis before he packed up his things and left the two in private. 

Tauriel and Kíli’s fingers entwined and felt affectionately at their conjoined hands. Kíli was curious to see how she was faring after the brutal events of the day but he could tell she was elsewhere. Her green eyes were fixed just beyond the thin blanket where Kíli’s feet formed twin mountains. Her gaze danced from side to side, heavily lost in thought. 

“What ails you?” 

Russet eyebrows raised in voiceless startlement. “I am sorry, _meleth nin_. Much has happened. It’s hard to keep track of it all,” she offered a tried smile but it just made Kíli worry more. 

“Whatever it is, I am sorry,” he searched her face. “You do not have to talk about it.” 

Tauriel’s eyes shone with gratitude, her countenance brightening as her endearment grew. “ _Annon allen_.”

Heart swelling from love, Kíli shifted over to make room as Tauriel climbed in next to him. Her tall, lithe figure rested a little higher in the cot, but she curled her legs and back to fit against the dwarf. Her forehead felt the tickle of his unshaven face as she nuzzled the nape of his neck, their hands still interlocked. 

It did not take long for both elleth and dwarf to succumb to the temptation of sleep. Heads were heavy with burdens and eyes worn from images neither would forget. 

Yes. Much has happened. 

~

The trip down from Ravenhill was done in grave silence. Four guards carried the prince’s body on a stretcher with the utmost care. It was a slow-going process thanks to the rough terrain, but it seemed every dwarf was too engrossed in his own thoughts to spend the time otherwise. 

Dwalin, who under normal circumstances would hold his head high and proud, swayed with the strides of his mount like a wilted flower. Hunched and ashen-faced, he trailed just behind the procession. His eyes never wandered far from the Prince’s motionless body. 

Dáin made the back of the party, he wanted to give the bald-topped dwarf some privacy before they returned and were swarmed by all those who also wanted to pay their respects. Fíli’s body would be laid inside the foot of the mountain for the entirety of one day before he would join his forefathers and kin in Erebor’s tomb forever. It wasn’t a lot of time to say one's final goodbye and ease the suffering in their hearts, but it was tradition and they would abide by it. Mahal knows many others would accompany the Prince on their journey home. 

As much as the somber moment stirred in his mind, there was another emotion that dwelled deep inside. As if the thought alone was enough to brush past everything else, the dwarf lord felt an overwhelming desire to feel the cool gold against his palm again. It was amazing how the little trinket lingered on inside his head; as glued to his brain as the fiery red locks in his scalp. 

This very fact perturbed Dáin, and the clammy fire of shame brought a heat to his tattooed forehead. He was pleased with his new discovery atop the hill. It was quite a stroke of luck he should find something so rare just laying in the snow. Yet, the questions of how it came to be there and even the findings of the Elvenking’s fate had all been cast aside. Nothing but the reassuring weight of the ring against his breast claimed the forefront of his conscience. And guiltily, he could find little room for poor Fíli either. 

He still found himself consumed with this incessant need when they reached the outskirts of Dale, still on their way to the mountain. 

Dwalin’s head perked up at his name being called. It didn’t take long for the company to spot him—Glóin was perched atop a dilapidated roof—and word spread fast. He was still in low spirits, but the sight of Glóin clumsily sliding his way down the rubble shook Dwalin’s shoulders with a throaty snort. 

One by one, the company made a bee-line towards him and fell in step. Bofur’s hat flapped as he jogged to catch up. His cheerful features subdued as they looked upon the fallen prince, his bottom lip arching momentarily as the reality set in. Bombur, just as distraught, offered a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Just last night we were talking about cleaning out the hearth and what we were going to make for our first meal in Erebor,” Dori confessed softly. 

“Aye,” Nori spoke, his three beards waggled as he nodded. “He asked me if Ori and I would play the flute for the occasion,” he recalled with warmth. 

“Said we should sing Misty Mountains together—for old time’s sake,” Bofur chimed in, sniffling through his glassy tears. “One last time.” 

“He was heartbroken when he stayed behind in Laketown,” Óin whispered. “He wanted nothing more than to be there when a dwarf took his first steps back home. He was so young, he had only heard stories of its grandness.” He smiled sadly. “But he was grown for his age. Lad always took it upon himself to look after Kíli. Never let him out of his sight in the Blue Mountains. Wouldn’t leave him behind in Laketown either. Even if it meant missing out.” 

“Aye, a good lad. Though I suspect Dís had something to do with that. Shoulda heard her talking to the two young ‘uns before we left,” Dwalin chuckled and a few others shared in the laughter. It was gladdening to talk of the prince. Remember him for the kind, fine dwarf he had been. To honor him with touching stories from all those who’d shared a part in his life. 

Dáin listened to the intimate conversation of the dwarves, turning his nose to face the ground so as not to disturb them. The laughs slowly ebbed away and the company took a collective sigh. 

“Kíli is going to be devastated,” Balin breathed shakily. “And Thorin...goodness knows how he’ll fare with all that’s been going on.” 

Dwalin frowned, his scruffy brows sinking together. “He’ll come back to himself,” he said, though his dodging eyes belied his lack of confidence. “He has to.” 

“He did seem better today before we went to battle,” Bofur offered optimistically. 

Bifur, Nori, and Bombur nodded in agreement. 

“But only after he forced us to wait,” Glóin said what they all were thinking. “The Thorin we all know would never have hesitated.”

Another moment of silence filled the time. Dáin, who had been passively spectating the discussion, felt his interest pique though he did not show it. For once, the pull on his attention had waned and he drank in the words with sobering clarity. It seemed today he was not only richer in treasures but also with information. He had never considered himself a pensive dwarf, but something inside told him to hold onto what he was hearing. 

He pinned the blame for his absorption on concern for his cousin, even though the elated pulse of his quickened heart begged to differ. 

What a day this was. The fallen Elvenking. The panic of the elves. Thorin under some kind of ailment. It was turning into quite the mess, but Dáin was certain he would sort it all out. 

“Well, there is no use troubling ourselves with such matters when Thorin and Kíli are still in recovery,” Ori rejoined. “We should focus on helping them get well again for now.”

The group hummed alive with unanimous concurrence. 

“Speaking of which, I’d best be getting back. I’ll tell Kíli his brother’s body is returned and can be placed to rest,” Balin imparted to the company before he, Bofur, and Dori peeled away back to the encampment. 

~

The dwarrow safely transported the prince to Erebor where the guards and some others of the Ironfoot men helped move him to the round room where the wakes were held. It took some effort of sweeping the walls and stone before the room met respectable standards. The orange glow of candles filled the space and a resplendent, fur was placed over the prince’s body. Once satisfied with the arrangement for the time-being, the guards left the company alone. 

By the time Thorin’s party had paid their respects and left, the moon was high in the star-filled sky. 

Some had opted to stay in Erebor, but Dáin personally preferred the comfort of his own tent just outside. He had been surrounded all day and sank into the furs upon his cot with instant relaxation. Usually, he was energized by the companionship of his fellow dwarves, but tonight he found the presence taxing. 

He hardly had the patience to wait until he was changed out of his armor and into his simple tunic and breeches to take out the golden ring and admire it. The lantern aside his cot shined amber rays upon the polished curve of the band, tempting the dwarf to keep turning it over and over to explore and memorize it’s flawless form. It was truly perfect, and soon, Dáin had no choice but to test its fit upon his finger to continue his examination.

Immediately upon touching his skin against the inner sides of the ring, the orange incandescent light was swallowed by the harshest of blinding white. The shadows that had seemed so hidden suddenly blackened to rival the night sky. The two opposites, light and dark seemed to swirl into one another, writhing with unyielding compromise. It was like Dáin could hear the wind curling at Erebor’s crown right there in his tent. The breeze caressed his ears without touching and with it he heard inaudible whispers of thousands of voices at once.

Shocked by the countless sensations overwhelming him, Dáin found himself gripping the furs tightly in his fists. Unable to comprehend what he was experiencing, he found himself both horribly uneasy and awestruck. 

Mentally noting what he could have done to cause such sorcery, he slowly brought his hand up and noted the way the ring still gleamed brilliant gold in a sea of rippling white and gray. 

He tore the circlet from his finger and gasped as the whispers hushed. He blinked and his head swam momentarily at the sudden stillness of the air around him. Everything was just as it was.

He gazed down in disbelief at the little wonder in his hand. _Was it magic? How was it possible?_

Determined to prove his sanity, Dáin slipped the ring on once again and shuddered as the same ethereal detachment overcame him. He expressed his incredulity in one forceful puff of laughter. How magnificent this little marvel turned out to be!

He found his curiosity take over as he rose from the cot and staggered out the tent, still adjusting to the dream-like scenery before him. What should have been near pitch-blackness was now a flat slate of grays and blacks that stretched for miles, far beyond what his naked eye should see. 

He twisted his head to look behind him at the guards posted by his tent and found them still standing at attention with no indication they just saw him exit. He waved his hand in front of their undisturbed face, captivated by how little the guard responded to it. Emboldened by their sheer ignorance of his presence, he gave the guard a jab of his pointer finger and watched with surprise at the cry of panic it induced. 

“Oi! Shut it!” the other guard hissed, glaring at the startled dwarf who glanced frantically. “Ye’ll wake the lord!”

“Something just stabbed me!” the guard insisted, still looking around with paranoia. Dáin quickly dodged as they stepped forward to peer around the corner of the tent. When they saw nothing there, they returned to their post, face now wide and alert.

“Aulë help me,” the other grumbled under his breath, dropping his shoulders once more and leaning against the spear he held in both hands. 

_They cannot see me_ , Dáin realized. He could not even begin to understand the reasoning behind this when the whispers suddenly unified into a coherent voice. 

_“...was broken at the bottom but...stronger downstream.._ . _found no sign...survival.”_

Dáin didn’t even know he was following the source of the sound until he could see the mass of flowing white and grays. Each figure shone brightly against the otherwise bleak landscape. It was as if Dáin was seeing the vitality of each individual soul as the auras grew more luminous in their chests and faces. 

_“...Prince...people are grieving...lay our brothers and sisters to rest...their journey to the Halls...”_

Instinctively, Dáin hesitated as he approached the elves but if what he had just discovered was true they wouldn’t be able to see him. A part of him was excited to truly test this theory and another was drawn by the secretive discussion that seemed to be taking place. 

Once he was close enough to make out the swimming pale tones of their flowing faces it occurred to Dáin that the elves were not speaking common tongue. There was the slightest delay in the comprehensible words he heard from those that he could see uttered from their lips. Much softer and sounding as if he were hearing it from underwater, he could make out the foreign words that had always irritated him. 

Was this another trick of the ring? He knew for certain he had not learned elvish since last he heard it so it must be. 

_“Guide us. Lead your people. Do not abandon them in this time of great sorrow and need._ ” 

The glowing figure stooped to his knee. _“Do as your father would. Take up your rightful place, my Prince.”_

_“We will follow you, my King.”_

A glittering drop fell from the phantom’s black, sunken eyes. 

So it was true. Dáin had figured as much but hearing it aloud was still just as shocking. It still surprised him to know that elves did die, but knowing the one and only Elvenking was dead was a humbling, though admittedly enjoyable notion. He had never liked the elf. Always with his thorny head held high, looking down his straight nose at any other creature with a look of disgust and disdain. Not ever had Dáin met a more self-conceited bastard. 

For all Dáin cared, it served the fairy right. At last, the Elvenking fell to a height deserving of his qualities. 

The dwarf lord knew little of Thranduil’s son, but if the elf took even the tiniest bit after his father he doubted he would be able to tolerate him. And judging by the sorrowful display it seemed the Prince cherished him one way or another. 

Dáin had to stop himself from grumbling his discontent. He had seen enough. With the Elvenking out of the way, Dáin would deal with what came next. He rolled the ring around his finger as he made his way back to his tent. 

_Yes, my precious. I’ll take care of it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, why must dwarvish names have so many accents? 
> 
> Anyways, here’s another update. The plot thickens and we start to see Dain’s slow descent. As far as the ring’s abilities, I did some research and it makes sense that Dain would be able to understand Elvish from what I found. Like we’ve seen in the movies and as stated in the books, the ring is able to let the wearer understand the languages of Orcs and the spider’s in Mirkwood. The theory is that since Sauron poured a bit of himself into the ring, you’re partially able to absorb some of his knowledge when you wear it. So if you’re able to understand Black Speech and Orkish, I think you could definitely understand Elvish—especially with Sauron’s history and familiarity with the Eldar. That’s my take on it anyhow.
> 
> Here’s the Elvish terms used:  
> Annon allen - thank you  
> melleth nin - my love
> 
> Dwarvish:  
> Ghuregbuzramerag - Deep Ale Fest. Did some research on Dwarvish holidays and this one sounded wild. As the name implies, participants heavily imbibe the duration of the whole festival. 
> 
> If you have any comments or things you want to say, please do! I love seeing hearing what you guys think! 
> 
> ‘Til the next update!  
> -CJ&J


	8. The Truth

Retreating deep into the recesses of his conscience, Bilbo still could not escape from the dull, throbbing ache that blossomed with every breath he drew. Tethered to a restless slumber by the pain, the hobbit felt as if time stretched for eternity. Seconds, hours, sunrises, and sunsets lost their meaning. Time was told by every agonizing rise and fall of his little chest. 

Eventually, the overwhelming sensations that twinged in his lungs lessened. But the change was so gradual and the hobbit’s fears so steady, that he only dared to draw the shallowest of breaths. It continued on like this. Toeing the delicate threshold between life and hurt. Perhaps if the halfling had been able to open his eyes to see the incredible work of the elves his apprehension would vanish. Yet, it lingered on. Recovery was a battle on two fronts; body and mind. And though Bilbo’s body mended beautifully, his mind would take much more time. 

When Bilbo’s eyes at last opened, a spike of adrenaline jolted him fully awake. Hazel flitted madly about the tent that glowed with a hazy copper light. He desperately rummaged through his foggy head until he could recall bits and pieces. He faintly remembered what transpired at Ravenhill, but anything beyond made him groan with frustration at the blank he kept drawing. 

“There is no need for panic.”

The halfling’s hair bounced at the sudden whip of his head, his nose quivering at the sound of the unexpected, but familiar voice. 

“Gandalf!” Bilbo’s exclamation was terribly hoarse. 

The grey wizard offered a gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his wise eyes. “My dear Bilbo. You’ve awoken at last.” 

“How long was I out?” Bilbo gasped, his hands pulling at the thin under-shirt until he could see the purple of his ribs. He hesitantly ran his fingers over the bruised flesh but was surprised at the numbed aching that followed in his touch’s wake. “It’s a miracle,” he breathed.

“Yes, they tended to your injuries with great care over four days.” 

Bilbo unballed the shirt in his hands, his attention once again affixed on the wizard. “F-four days?” he repeated, his chin sinking into his neck as he looked with disbelief up at the nodding figure. 

“The wound you sustained was grave for one so small,” Gandalf reasoned. “You needed the rest, no doubt, and so did Thorin.” 

Bilbo’s head perked up at the name, all concern for himself a distant memory. “Is Thorin okay? Is he alright?” 

Gandalf guided Bilbo gently back into the pillows with a friendly, but stern raised eyebrow. “Yes. The King under the Mountain is alive and well. He woke up two days ago and has been under constant monitoring by both elf and dwarf alike. Though, I believe he tired of it yesterday.” 

Bilbo exhaled with a deep sigh, relief softening his features and quieting the trembling in his fingers. “I am glad to hear.” 

“As we all are. The dwarrow rejoice at their newfound hope and bright future,” Gandalf’s voice trailed off, words left unsaid sitting on his tongue.

“Bilbo,” he said with the intonation the hobbit had quickly learned meant the wizard sought something. And he would not be easily swayed or fooled. The halfling had little to hide, but his eyes subconsciously drifted to his dirtied clothes which sat neatly folded beside the entrance. 

“What happened on the hill.” It was not a question. It was a command, and Bilbo knew better than to flourish or delay in his response. 

A pang of guilt soured the hobbit’s briefly relaxed face as he steeled himself to explain. “Legolas and Tauriel had returned just in time from Gundabad to tell us of another army that was coming to ambush Thorin and his nephews. Thranduil and I both raced there to warn Thorin and the others,” he left out the part as to how, his eyes briefly glancing up at Gandalf to see if there was any question. Thankfully, the wizard seemed too busy putting the pieces together to notice or ask. “I got there just as Azog was preparing to lure Thorin into a trap. I called out but,” Bilbo’s voice caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected tears to prickle in his vision, but the horrible memory of being just too out of reach to help still haunted his heart. “But it was too late. Azog had Thorin on the ground one second after and I tried to reach them but,” his shoulders shook as he tried to withhold his mortified sobs. “I wasn’t fast enough,” he squeaked. 

“Go on,” Gandalf urged, encouraging the hobbit with a sympathetic smile. 

Bilbo dragged in a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t fast enough, but  _ he  _ was. Thranduil. The Elvenking himself!” The hobbit shook his head. He could not believe his eyes then when it had happened and he could hardly feel any different now thinking about it. “I never thought I’d see him rushing to Thorin’s defense, but… I am ever so thankful. He fought Azog valiantly—even protected him when I failed and was knocked to the side. I…” he stammered. After this it all gets a bit muddled. “I remember waking up and moving to Thorin’s side. I don’t remember hearing any fighting, but I—“ his tears continued to fall. “I heard this  _ scream _ ,” he shivered. “I think it was Legolas,” Bilbo brought a hand over his mouth, the realization hitting him harder than the blow he had suffered. 

“Yes, I think you are right,” Gandalf made a grim sound. “I think you and Legolas are the last to see the Elvenking alive.” 

Bilbo’s shock manifested in a horrified gaze. “Alive?” he echoed. 

Gandalf said nothing, merely just watched the hobbit slump into the pillows behind his shoulders like every shred of energy had been sapped clean from his body. He knew at this point that there was little chance the Elvenking’s fate deviated from the grave end the wizard had feared for him. Though greatly shaken by the news, Bilbo’s disbelief gave way to grief too quickly to counter his theory. 

“It cannot be true,” the quivering voice spoke barely over a whisper. 

Gandalf could find no words of assurance or comfort to quell the tense quietness that stifled them both. His worries multiplied when he thought of the fragile state of the kingdoms in the aftermath of destruction. The elves were undoubtedly lost without their leader, and he seriously wondered if Legolas was ready to take on the role of king. Legolas was very much his father in terms of stubborness and unbending will, but while Thranduil had learned his strengths lied with leading his kingdom to help his people, Legolas had turned to the path of heroic warrior to aid those in need. Both noble causes, but he knew the Prince was a free-spirit and could not easily be tied down to anything. He had even defied Thranduil on multiple occasions. Now he was expected to make those same decisions he hardly ever obeyed. 

The elves were a problem enough, but there were dwarves and men involved, too. Eru knows what would happen if any of them caught wind that the Elvenking was very likely dead and Mirkwood was in disarray. Gandalf nearly gave himself a migraine just with the thought. 

“Can he really be gone?” Bilbo croaked. “Does Thorin even know?” Almost immediately, the hobbit’s back shot straight up from the bed, his proportionally large feet dangling off the side of the bed. “I want to go see him.”

Gandalf placed a cautionary hand on the halfling’s shoulder, turning a raised eyebrow at him. “Steady, Bilbo. You have just awoken yourself. Are you sure you’re ready to face a room full of dwarves?” 

The delivery of those words told the hobbit that Gandalf had other reasons to disagree. He hadn’t really given much thought as to what Thorin would do once he was told of this. Would he be angry? Disgusted? Ashamed? Or worst of all, was he still claimed by a sickness that deprived the dwarf of all reason and compassion? 

Did he still hate him for taking the Arkenstone?

Bilbo’s eyes fell to hem of the oversized tunic he wore, the worn edges draping well past his knees while he mentally prepared himself. He felt hard-wired, buzzing with electricity. Something in him would not still until he did this. 

If Thranduil gave his life so Thorin could live, he deserved to at least be credited for his sacrifice. Even if Thorin may not like it, it was the truth. Bilbo felt the same hot lump of dread in his throat and heat on his brow. He may not be able to recall the events of the past days, but he remembered the night not too long ago when he felt almost this exact same weight upon his shoulders. 

He had told himself then as he wrapped the glowing gem in strips of linen that it was for the best. Told himself again that he was saving them all when he stuffed the wad of cloth and rock in his coat and headed to the ramparts. Saw that Bofur knew it was what they needed in his sad eyes before he climbed down the rope and stole away into the night. 

And he will tell himself now that whatever the outcome may be, it is the right thing to do. 

“He needs to know, Gandalf.”

The weathered hand on Bilbo’s shoulder tightened its hold the slightest amount before it pulled away entirely to deposit the wizard’s pointed hat atop his head. “Yes,” Gandalf frowned. “ _ Only _ him.”

With that, the tall gray figure rose and turned towards the bright slit of light in the canvas, his gnarled staff already parting the way for his exit. 

Bilbo’s feet gingerly followed, his eyes glancing back at his clothes still tucked in the corner. “I-I’ll just be a moment. I feel...” his eyes scrutinized his shabby appearance with a grimace. “I feel a bit ridiculous being seen like this. Can I get a moment to get changed quickly?” 

Gandalf did not even look back. Just grumbled over his shoulder. “Very well.”

The hobbit swallowed thickly as he waited for the wizard’s shadow to leave before he approached his clothes. With as much hurried nonchalance as he could muster, Bilbo’s hand dived into the pocket of his vest. 

At first, his fingers could only feel the frayed ends of loose threads from the worn attire before moving elsewhere for his search. He did not remember leaving it in another pocket, but that must be the only conclusion. Surely it was there somewhere. 

Panic began to swell in his cheeks as he furiously shook his clothes out, expecting the tell-tale glint to catch his eye and relieve him of this horrid fluster. 

“No, no, no,” he breathed heavily, hands going shaky as he patted the ground, scuffing his knees into the earth as he crawled in frantic desperation. “Where is it, where is it!” 

“Bilbo, are you alright in there?” Every word edged closer to the entrance of the tent until the hobbit could spot two dark shapes where the wizard’s feet must be. 

“Yes!” he nearly shouted in alarm. He picked himself off the ground, dusting his knees off and his hands though they trembled unrelentingly. He thought he felt queasy. “Just a bit stiff is all!” he clamped his lips shut, an overwhelming urge to scream suddenly taking over. 

Gandalf said nothing but his feet did not move. Bilbo couldn’t find any unoccupied space in his thoughts to care. All he could focus on was the powerful sensation of possessiveness and sickening paranoia.  _ If it was not here, where was it? Did someone take it while he was unconscious? Who would dare take my precious! _

“It’s mine,” Bilbo growled between his teeth. If he had to search every creature in this encampment to find it again, he would. It was his and it  _ will _ be returned to him. 

He dressed mechanically, reminding himself that he was going to see Thorin shortly with a detached voice in the back of his mind. It calmed him a little, helping him see past the suspicions clouding over his vision. He was still very much distressed, but genuine concern for his friend helped the hobbit store away those feelings for the time being. At least Thorin was bed-ridden and was likely the one person Bilbo could trust did not take the ring. 

He held on tight to that knowledge as he stepped out into the stark light of day, squinting his sensitive eyes at the change. He heard an inaudible low grumble from overhead and merely latched his narrowed vision on the wizard’s face. He nodded in response to what must have been a question, though he did not hear it. 

His answer must have been good enough, for the looming cloak of gray turned his shoulder and began to lead the way through the ward to where Thorin must be. The sun still battered down on the hobbit, but for once he was thankful for the harsh rays of light; they guised his scrunched look of distrust as he pondered the idea of Gandalf taking the ring while he slept. 

_ That wizard. Always sticking his nose in the business of others.  _

Bilbo’s frown deepened as he trailed after the pointed hat.  _ He has the nerve to interrogate me as if I’m the one holding a secret! Him! A petty thief and up to no good— _

The hobbit froze as the end of the wizard’s staff prodded his chest. Suddenly, all those malignant thoughts vanished into thin air when Bilbo met Gandalf’s eyes.

“Just as I suspected,” the gray beard shifted slightly as the wizard drew his lips into a solemn line. 

Bilbo’s heart hammered against his chest. How foolish of him to ever think that anything gets past him! He knew everything of course. How could he have ever believed he could lie to a wizard and get away with it? 

Words bubbled at the tip of Bilbo’s tongue almost as quickly as the sinking feeling of guilt pulled him down. He had barely opened his mouth to confess it all when Gandalf turned his head away abruptly as if to peer beyond the tent they had stopped behind. 

“That dwarf is never alone. I’ll have to draw them away. The second they see you they’re bound to swarm and any hope of a private conversation will surely end,” a heavy sigh of frustration marked the start of a grumbling series of remarks about the stubbornness of dwarves. 

Bilbo snapped his jaw shut, feeling sheepish and light-headed at the realization that he had nearly given everything away for nothing. He couldn’t even say he felt relieved. He felt drained, but gave Gandalf what attention he could when he faced him again. 

“You’ll have to do this alone, I’m afraid. I was hoping I’d be able to accompany you but it seems there is no such luck. Remember what we discussed. Only Thorin can know of the Elvenking’s fate. You must make him promise that he will not spread this information. It is only for his own benefit that he should know his savior’s name.” 

“Yes,” Bilbo shifted his feet uneasily. “Yes, of course.”

Gandalf paused for a moment, his knowing gaze seeming to assess the current situation at hand one last time. There was undeniably a hint of hesitation in the way he stalled. The silence only made the hobbit squirm more under the added pressure. Eventually, the wizard just gave another of his exhaustive humphs and brought his staff back by his side. 

“I will go and clear the way. Make sure no one sees you.”

“Wait—“ Bilbo reached out, failing to grasp anything but grateful the wizard turned back to him anyways. “Is he okay? Has he seemed… himself?” The end of a pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, teeth anxiously scraping over after. 

“He has seen better days,” was the earnest reply, though it did nothing to help Bilbo’s nerves. “But I believe his worst days are behind him.” 

The hobbit bobbed his head for no reason in particular. There was nothing to agree to, but he felt this compulsive need to accept this was really happening. To be completely honest, there was little about the halfling that was not caught up in some fidget or nervous tic. 

Thorin was his friend and he wanted to see him dearly. But truth be told, he hadn’t seen that friend in quite a while. Not completely. 

“Are you ready?” 

Bilbo’s curls bounced as he nodded with a bit more conviction this time, though the dip of his Adam’s apple suggested anything but certainty. 

Gandalf left without another word. His gray form disappeared behind the canvas and Bilbo could only hear muffled voices. He heard the sound rise in volume as several gruff voices piped up at what must be Gandalf’s interruption. Some sounded tired and strained but the overall tone was jovial. 

He heard someone clear their throat loudly and it occurred to Bilbo that it must be Gandalf, for he was able to make out the first words of the conversation when the wizard sonorously proclaimed “yes, follow me. It is of the utmost importance.” 

The chorus of voices slowly faded into the mundane din of the encampment. Bilbo awaited a bit longer to make sure that they had all left before he warily poked his head around the side of the tent. 

Once he had confirmed that the only witnesses to his visit would be elves too busy to notice his meek presence, he tentatively stepped forward with his over-sized feet. He easily crossed the main pathway that ran between the row of tents without a sound and soon found himself before the foreboding tent that housed the King Under the Mountain. 

He knew he had little time to dwell, but an onslaught of emotions glued the halfling to where he stood. It was so quiet on the other side. He debated whether Thorin was even awake. And if he was not, should he even bother rousing him? Surely the dwarf had suffered much and could use the rest. Perhaps it would be a better idea to tell him when he was fully healed and stronger. 

He found himself stalking across the tent opening, always locking his knees when he reached not a yard away in retreat from the culpable twinge that yanked at his heart strings. The hobbit scraped his hands over his worn eyes, groaning at his own cowardice. 

_ Stop this dance of madness and just go in there _ he could hear himself say. This was preposterous. There was nothing to fear. He could at the very least greet his friend.  _ Yes, start small and then build _ , he breathed out his nose, crinkling it in determination. 

He had just made a decisive step forward when the canvas suddenly parted and none other than the dwarven king stood before him. 

Bilbo jolted to a halt, his eyes instantly stuck on the questioning lapis that stared back. 

“Master Burglar,” the intimidating baritone stated plainly. 

“Oh, um,” an unnerving flush warmed the hobbit’s back as he fought to produce audible words from his numb tongue. The impersonal title was disheartening to hear. “Yes, I… I came to see you,” he responded dumbly, simply telling the imposing figure something which was clearly obvious. 

The two addressed each other with more overbearing stillness. Bilbo dared not say anything for fear that his words would continue to fail him and blurt out something unintentionally. He had not cognized the depths of the barrier that had grown between him and Thorin until now. Those brooding eyes had the ability to detain indescribably strong emotions of betrayal, hate, and hurt. When they had first set out on their quest, Bilbo had only caught glimpses of those feelings from afar when the dwarves’ melancholic song by the fireplace had stirred his soul. And he had only seen flashes here and there for the months to follow. 

Yet, he had always felt compelled by this fact to learn more about the enigmatic warrior. He remembered his life back in Hobbiton where there were so many who inserted themselves into the lives of others just for entertainment. The hobbit-folk were a close-knit community, but Bilbo had invariably felt he was the odd one out. He was polite and made nice just as his parents had instructed him to do so, and he was a firm believer of respectful demeanor himself, but he had noticed how exasperated and irritated he got when it came to the nosiness of his neighbors. Not to mention the vehement repulsion that quaked his bones at the mention of the Sackville-Bagginses. 

Of course when Gandalf disrupted his peaceful evenings, his most favorite time of the day, he was less than thrilled. Even more so when thirteen dwarves ransacked his pantry and endangered his mother’s prized china. But it did not take more than a week into their adventure for Bilbo to learn that these dwarves did not bicker about who pruned whose hedges. Did not care who said what about their garden. Didn’t concern themselves with trivial matters in the camp that Bilbo knew without question would make any other hobbit give the dirtiest of looks. Their worries were above their own petty needs and aspirations. They strived for something greater than themselves.

It was strange. It was different. But most of all, Bibo found it  _ refreshing _ . A part of him took a long time to adjust to the rough life of being on the move with barely any comforts of home to ease the way. The other part, though, knew that this was what he had been missing all his life. 

Each and every moment of the road to Erebor made Bilbo admire each and every dwarf more and more. Thorin, however, was someone Bilbo held in the highest esteem and regard. He thought he could gain a lot being by the dwarven king’s side; courage and confidence. Having the gall to stand up for the right thing even in the face of death. Selflessness. There was a reason Thorin was so loved by his people. 

Yet, here and now, there was still so much about Thorin that Bilbo did not know. He knew the dwarf was secretive and proud beyond measure. He had once earned some of the King’s rare trust when he saved his life atop that rocky cliff, but it seemed like years ago. There was no telling what he was thinking, or worse yet, what he felt looking at him now. 

The hobbit watched the subtle etchings of wrinkles working around Thorin’s brow, trying his best to decipher their meanings but knowing deep down that he would never be able to decode the mystery that was his dear friend—that is, if there was even evidence of a friendship still between them. 

“It was foolish of me to think that their departure meant I could be alone at last.” 

Bilbo nearly sank to his knees, his chin dropping as he ducked his face down in utter heartbreak. His overgrown curled fringe offered a flimsy shield between his oncoming tears and the solid stance of the dwarf he wanted nothing more than to embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo quavered. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll never intrude on you again—“

“Bilbo,” the scent of firewood and pine wrapped around the hobbit’s trembling form as Thorin suddenly closed the gap between them. His voice had unmasked itself into a gentle tide within the sea of power the dwarf had within. Two strong hands rested atop Bilbo’s shoulders and the halfling desperately willed the tremors of his oncoming sobs to stop. 

“I am glad I am not alone.” 

Bilbo looked up through his wayward ringlets. His tears freely slid down his cheeks when he relaxed under Thorin’s smile. “I’m happy to see you. I heard you were still unconscious when I awoke.” 

“It is I who am glad,” Bilbo cleared his cracked voice, letting his tense shoulder drop with the weight of the two hands. He sighed shakily with joyous relief, the apprehension for this encounter melting away until it became nothing more than an outlandish notion. “I don’t know what we would have done if… I do not even want to think of it.” 

Thorin’s eyes fell for a moment, his smile saddened by thoughts that had been plaguing him since the battle. Most of all, he was reminded often of his nephew’s death. His mind still refused to accept the reality that Fíli’s body was lying cold under the mountain. He had insisted that he make the short trip there to see him with his own eyes and give him a proper send off as his duty as king, but elves and dwarves alike had thwarted his every attempt with incessant detailings of his injury and weakened state. 

He discovered he had no trouble standing on the second day of his recovery, but when he had tried to dress himself to prove he was fit for duty, the wound on his chest had throbbed and the stitches had become loose. He hadn’t found an unsupervised moment since. Even when he thought he was by himself, Balin or Dwalin would suddenly appear just as the inkling of desire to leave the cot crossed Thorin’s mind. 

He had become so engrossed with the idea of escaping this horrible feeling of uselessness that he had even reduced himself to pretending to rest so that he might be given an opportunity to at least step outside for a moment. Unfortunately, his company was loyal to a fault at times and refused to leave his side. He had nearly lost his temper when he turned in his bed to find all eleven dwarves cramped on the floor and some manning the tent entrance. The only thing that stopped his furious outburst was Kíli’s slumped form by his bed. The boy had passed out in his chair by Thorin’s side, his arms sinking into the shallow mat of the cot and his head buried face down between them and his chest. 

The sight had made Thorin’s heart lurch. He had always known the two brothers were inseparable, but not seeing Fíli with him broke his heart. It was funny how little things could become such big reminders in times of loss. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. 

Thorin gave a squeeze to Bilbo’s shoulders as a comforting gesture but only succeeded in eliciting a flinch from the hobbit. He immediately withdrew his hands, reprimanding himself for forgetting the small creature was likely more hurt than he was. “Are you very hurt?” 

Bilbo wriggled his shoulder after the dull twinge, grimacing at how stiff that side of his body was. “No, just bruised,” he averred. 

Thorin still maintained his distance after that, appearing to discern whether he was just told a lie or not with casual suspicion before he took the hobbit’s word for it. “In any case, you should come inside and sit.”

Bilbo noted the slight lumber in the way Thorin moved his shoulders as he followed the dwarf into the dim light of the tent. 

The sun was still piercing through the canvas above but the light softened into an amber bloom rather than streaks. The room was nowhere near private, but the outside world quieted a bit once Thorin pulled the slit closed and gestured to a chair by the bed for Bilbo to sit. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Bilbo peered over his shoulder, in the middle of sitting down. Thorin pointed to the table on the other side of the bed where several chunks of bread, cheese, and meat were strewn about. There looked to be several unraveled cloth bundles that Bilbo guessed contained more of the same. 

He looked over at Thorin inquisitively and the dwarf shook his head. “Apparently they all thought I would die of starvation next. Please, help yourself.”

At the mention of food and the enticing smell, Bilbo couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten. He grabbed one parcel and returned to his seat, offering some to Thorin who promptly refused and had yet to take a seat himself. 

At Bilbo’s puzzled look Thorin explained. “I’ve found it hard to rest in one place after four days. They refuse to let me go anywhere.” 

Another moment transpired without a word and Bilbo slowly picked at the half-loaf of bread, feeling better now that he had something in his stomach. 

He surveyed the dwarf in this span of time. It seemed though Bilbo had finally reached some form of calm, the dwarf was caught in some kind of ceaseless agitation. He would cross his arms over his chest then undo them a minute later, his eyes darting around the tent with a swiftness that told the hobbit he had probably thoroughly scrutinized every inch of this enclosure every waking moment. Bilbo could not imagine the headstrong dwarf had an easy time sitting idly by while his men bustled around the camp and tended to the million things needing attention in the wake of war. Especially as their king, he must have felt an overwhelming amount of negligence on his part. But Bilbo could tell he was still in the process of healing, and therefore should not blame himself for needing the time to recover. 

Bilbo swallowed a bite of cheese, wrapping the remainder of the food for a later time while he deemed now as good a time as any to say what was weighing heavily on his mind. “How are you feeling?”

The dwarf followed Bilbo’s line of sight to his chest where the tingling itch of a mending wound had been a constant companion the past four days. He chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can hardly complain.”

The dwarf pushed off the desk he had been sitting back against as he approached the hobbit, his smile morphing into something profoundly sincere. “It is a small price to pay, but I will be honest, I feel I owe much more.” 

Bilbo’s brows raised in query at the unexpected openness the dwarven king showed. It was so unlike Thorin to be so emotionally bare—especially with him. The vulnerability in the azure eyes that looked down at him made Bilbo breathe very shallowly as if he would scare the moment away.

“You’ve saved my life before and I knew I could always rely on you to have my back. But for you to save my life once again, I believe I’m horribly indebted to you, Bilbo.” 

Hazel eyes widened in revelation. “Thorin, wait—“

“There is no need to be modest—not with me. Please, I implore you to remove all formalities between us. Titles mean nothing. As far as I am concerned I am at your service. Anything you wish, I will try my best to make it so. It is the least I can do.” 

“Please, you are mistaken!” Bilbo had gotten to his feet, his blood thrumming in his pointed ears at the out pour of immense gratitude. Gratitude that was so wrongly directed it made the hobbit squeamish to hear it. 

“Will you not give me the chance to repay you?” 

“I am not the one you should repay!” 

“Why do you insist on denying it? I remember you by my side! I saw you pushed away by Azog himself!” 

Thorin’s voice had amplified to fill the whole tent, a despairing edge to his baritone that told Bilbo that this had been dwelling on the king’s mind for some time. Now the jittery disquietness all made sense. 

If something truly compelled the king to reward his savior, then perhaps the matter of who it may be would not be such a big factor. 

With that at the forefront of Bilbo’s dizzying mind, the halfling at last admitted the truth. “I was by your side, Thorin, but it was not I who saved your life. It was the Elvenking.”

At first nothing moved. Then a deep, rich laugh sounded with clarity. 

“If you will not take credit, at least come up with a better lie.”

“It is not a lie,” Bilbo frowned at the abrupt change in the Dwarven King’s face as the realization that it may not be a joke dawned on him. 

“Impossible,” Thorin sneered. “If that pointy-eared bastard truly saved my life he would have barged in here the second I was awake to boast of it. I would never hear the end of it and I would certainly not be hearing of it now from you.” 

“That may have been true had he…” Bilbo choked on his words under the increasingly cold stare of the dwarf. “Had he not fallen.” 

“Fallen?” Thorin repeated, the disbelief thick on his tongue. “He was slain? He is  _ dead _ ?”

Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to affirm the fact he was dead. Something still felt wrong about declaring the Elvenking gone without a trace of his body, but there was little hope now that so many days had drawn by without a sign. He opted to embellish instead. “When Azog ambushed you, I was too far away to help but Thranduil was fast. He shoved him away before he could pierce your heart and fought him to the cliff edge. I...I thought he had defeated him but… he must have fallen with the orc. All the way down to the River Running.” A warm tear struck his clasped hands, fingers intertwining and writhing in fretfulness. 

“Forgive me, I cannot… accept this,” Thorin brought a hand to his temple, his eyes roving over invisible marks on the floor. An anguished look was carved into his countenance, bafflement keeping his lips parted in utter loss of words.

“I have no reason to lie to you. It is the truth, Thorin. The Elvenking saved your life!” Bilbo’s lip trembled, his voice breaking to barely a whisper. “He did what I could not.” 

His tears only seemed to astound the dwarf further, a conflicting mixture of shock and distress vying for Thorin’s attention. 

_ How could it be? Thranduil of Mirkwood saving my life? Sacrificing himself? Sacrificing everything for a dwarf who despised him?  _ It was insanity. 

Thranduil had continually been unpredictable in his dealings with Thorin. Many years ago when the Arkenstone had been uncovered, he remembered meeting Thranduil and the supercilious Mirkwood elves for the first time. Many had come to pay homage to the stone and his grandfather, Thrór. It was intended to be an opportunity to reconsider potential allies and partners since Erebor had grown exponentially in its wealth. He remembered his father and grandfather conversing the night before about how fortuitous an alliance between Erebor and their neighbors in Mirkwood could be. There weren’t many natural resources other than stones and precious gems to be found in the mountain, and what Erebor lacked, Mirkwood was plentiful. There was much to gain for Mirkwood as well from such a union. Yet, it became very clear early on in the day that the vainglorious Elvenking had no such interest in their endeavors. 

He recalled most vividly the way the whitest gold of hair barely moved as the crowned elf gave one disdainful look at the Heart of the Mountain and walked away without so much as a bow of respect. The ire in his grandfather’s eyes was not hard to miss the rest of the night. 

Young as he was, even Thorin understood the benefits that Mirkwood could have enjoyed if the Elvenking had even been willing to listen. Such arrogant behavior had been an aggravating persistence, but Thorin had not abandoned the thought of forging an alliance between their two kingdoms. 

That is, until the day Thranduil abandoned him and his people. Since then, Thorin had swore to never place his trust in the hands of elves. Particularly the smooth, uncalloused palms of the Elvenking. There was no reasoning with the imperious creatures and no respect to be shown. 

So why is it that Thranduil should rush to his aid now? What could have possibly driven him to such severe action? 

Before he could ask Bilbo more, a head of fiery red burst through the tent. 

“Ah, thought somethin’ fishy was goin’ on!” Dáin’s booming voice jested. “Nearly walked right past ya since it wasn’t surrounded by an army of dwarves!” he cackled. 

Thorin’s shoulders tensed at the sudden intrusion, but did not drop as a stubby hand clapped strongly down on his back. 

“Dáin,” Thorin gave a trying smile. 

“And this must be yer ‘obbit friend!” Dáin took one step forward towards the startled halfling, his jolly grin faltering slightly at the puffy eyes revealed upon closer inspection. Before he could say another word, Thorin decided to return the favor and clamp a hand down on the stout dwarf’s shoulder. 

“Yes. This is Bilbo.”

Dáin quirked an eyebrow. “Bilbo, eh? Don’t hear a name like that often, now do ya?”

“Yes, well, I have yet to meet another me,” Bilbo spoke rather monotonously, still unsure of what to make of the unexpected company. He knew little of Dáin. Only that he was Thorin’s cousin, hailed from the Iron Hills, and that Gandalf always thought Thorin was the more reasonable of the two. He was beginning to understand why.

Dáin howled in hearty laughter at what Bilbo had meant as the driest of comments. “Funny one, isn’t he,” he grinned at Thorin who responded with nothing more than an apologetic glance in Bilbo’s direction. 

“Is there an urgent matter?” Thorin inquired over his shoulder as Dáin quickly averted his task at hand to fill a goblet with wine. 

“Oh, well there’s been quite a few matters. Nothing terribly pressing as I’ve been tending in your stead. Folks are startin’ to get a little antsy over the funeral preparations though. Think it might be best we decide on that.” 

Thorin nodded in acknowledgement. “I will, but I was just in the middle of a conversation when you came in. I’d like to finish it first.” 

Dáin tipped his head in confirmation. “Don’t mind me. Talk away!” He raised his glass in the air as if to declare his preoccupation for the time being, but did not make any move to leave them alone. 

Thorin hesitated slightly at the predicament but seemed to relent with a heavy sigh. 

“Are you—-“

“—let’s discuss this later!” Bilbo interjected to Thorin’s bewilderment. The dwarf was intelligent, however, and gave a furtive glance over in Dáin’s direction who appeared to still be very much engaged in his drink. He did not know why Bilbo was so keen on keeping the details of their conversation a secret but there was little he could do to protest. He was still unsure of what to do with the information he had been given as well, and felt perhaps it was smarter to have some time to process it anyway. 

“Of course,” he conceded. “You and I will talk about this later.” 

Bilbo was thankful the dwarf had caught on to the sensitivity of the situation. Saying anything more was sure to arouse suspicions and he had yet to make up his mind about Dáin. It appeared Thorin was at least in agreement that the dwarf should be kept in the dark for now. 

Feeling as though his every move was being carefully watched, Bilbo left without another word. Hopeful that he had succeeded in his mission and feeling better about telling Thorin of what truly happened, the hobbit felt the lull of a peaceful rest beckon him back to his tent. 

“Strange little fellow,” Dáin gulped another mouthful of wine down. 

“He is my friend,” Thorin pressed. He did not consider himself the most embracing of people, but compared to Dáin, Thorin had always at least given others a chance no matter where they came from. The Iron Hills was a very different place. Thorin had only visited a handful of times, but he had heard of how they talked about the outside world. 

Dáin shrugged. “What’s yer business is yer business. Ah! And speaking of business, ‘e didn’t happen to mention anything about the elves did he?” 

Thorin schooled his expression into complete passiveness. “Nothing, why?” 

The sound of blunt fingers tapping against the table top accompanied the dismissive shrug of the tattooed dwarf’s shoulders. “No reason. Just seen some suspicious activity from ‘em lately.”

Thorin crossed his arms over his chest. “Enlighten me.”

The crimson mohawk brushed the side of the tent as the dwarf leaned back in his seat. “Seems to me they’re in a bit of a tizzy. Always sending some of their own off to Ravenhill in the middle of the night and then coming back in the wee hours of the mornin’.” His green eyes swept over the King’s face for a moment. “If you ask me, seems like they’re looking for somethin’.” 

The muscles in Thorin’s jaw popped as he clenched his teeth. This only confirmed what Bilbo had told him. That the Elvenking had indeed fallen. Dáin’s theory might have seemed crazy to him mere minutes ago, but now it just made Thorin’s stomach flip. 

“What elves decide to do in their spare time is little concern to me,” Thorin shook his head. “We should focus on our people now. Leave their blunders to them.” 

Dáin’s beard bobbed with every nod of his head, his eyes never leaving the King Under the Mountain. “Aye. Couldn’t agree more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! An update! This chapter is a longer one so hopefully that makes up for the wait. 
> 
> Poor Bilbo. So many things are just not going his way.


	9. The Captive

_ Nanwenmë. _

It was not a voice that anyone could hear. It was not even a voice. It was a feeling. Like a filtered breeze beneath a canopy of trees. Barely there. If you did not stop for a moment and listen, you would miss the whispers of the leaves. 

_ Kalmar, mín tur-’t cenin.  _

A warm phantom’s touch curled against his temples, like a mother caresses her child to sleep. He inhaled deeply through his nose, imagining the smell of lush moss still damp from the morning. The very earth would open to the air, dirt soft and rich to suck up the moisture and breathe such raw, unmarked wildness into the forest. His chest ached to find himself among the  _ Eryn Galen _ again. 

It was calling to him. He was beyond its reaches and the bond that tied the Elvenking to his home fluttered faintly in his heart. He was king of the Greenwood as well as its vessel. His father, Oropher, had also shared in this innate power with the forest, but Thranduil had grown up in those woods. The ancient spirit had entwined itself to Thranduil and over the years, he discovered his deep connection. He found he was the only one who could truly hear its soughs and share in its expansive knowledge. It told him of the creatures that walked between the towering trees. Showed him as far as the green leaf could sail with the wind. He could even feel the oppressing darkness that spread amongst the branches from Dol Guldor and the streaked cotton of spiderwebs in the West. 

He had never felt truly alone. His soul thrummed with the vitality of Mirkwood and his blood pulsed with the uncontained energy that ran miles below the surface among the winding roots. But now he could hardly find any trace. He was weak and feared how far he had been taken from his realm. He wondered if the strength of  _ Eryn Galen _ was leaving him, sensing his inevitable fate. 

He longed to hear the birds sing. 

“ _ Time to wake up.”  _

Thick, warm fluid collided with the Elvenking’s face. It dribbled down his chin, sticking his long strands of hair to his cheek. 

The abrupt splash sent a wave of panic through the elf, suddenly reminded of his perilous battle in the Celduin. Reflexively, Thranduil inhaled sharply through his chapped lips, instantly regretting as the unmistakable sharp, bitter taste of stale blood invaded his senses. 

He tugged harshly at his bound arms, wanting desperately to swipe the syrupy substance away. He bared his teeth in frustration as he pulled against the restraints. His wrists were tied together and mashed between his back and rough bark that bit into the exposed skin of his knuckles and wrists. 

He opened his eyes at the excited snarls of wargs. The mangy beasts were drawn to the stench of rotting blood and circled the trapped elf with predatory interest. 

“Did you sleep well?” a voice sniggered. Thranduil’s narrowed eyes landed upon the puny orc. His vision trailed down from the gnarled nose to the lopsided jaw that glistened with a wet film. A drip from the point of its chin landed with a tinny tap upon what he recognized was his own cuirass. The sight of fine elvish craft being adorned by such a despicable wretch made his blood boil. Finally, his sight flickered down to the dripping bucket in its filthy hands. 

The orc continued to ogle the blood-bathed elf with sickening glee, flicking any remaining rivulets of black, disgusting liquid towards the creature without care. 

He earned a subsequent flinch from the captive when dark drops peppered the otherwise unblemished face, but his efforts were unrewarded after. When it seemed as though the elf was no longer affected by the addition of more blood, the orc discarded the bucket in favor of closing in on the unblinking glare. “The only good elf is one covered in elf blood,” a purple tongue darted out between yellowed fangs to languidly lick clawed fingers clean. 

A wrinkle creased from the elf’s pointed nose to the corners of a deepening frown at the appalling sight and the orc could not help but grin victoriously. But before the foul thing could taste another drop, a red glob of spit struck it across it’s crooked cheek. 

Quickly, the smirk soured into an enraged scowl. 

“If blood is what you want to taste, I promise you I will  _ drown  _ you in your own,” the words were hissed like venom and spoken with chilling certitude. 

The scrawny creature snarled with outrage at the audacious threat and abandoned mockery to free a jagged knife from its hip. “Strong words from a tied up elfling!” it grated. “We’ll see how brave you stay when I stick you right between the ribs!”

“You would be doing me a favor,” the Elvenking craned his neck forward to look the orc straight in the eyes, completely unfazed by the knife that glinted in the overcast light, “of relieving me of the putrid stench that seeps from your skin.” 

_ “Dugparar!”  _ the orc screeched, drawing back its arm to thrust the knife forward and into the defiant, proud chest. 

Thranduil did not so much as bat an eye as the blade was brought dangerously close to his sternum. What did alarm him was the ominous figure that emerged from behind his attacker. 

A massive white claw clamped around the weedy wrist of the orc and, with no apparent effort, yanked the pitiful thing off balance until it crashed with a surprised yowl to the ground. 

The creature spun around to face whatever had just disarmed it and immediately cowered under the icy blue stare. 

_ “Kigiji ni ku uorkormajal,”  _ Azog rumbled with deadly coolness. His boot stamped down onto the orc’s back and it cried out fearfully. He proceeded to put more and more of his weight onto the squirming thing until an audible crack could be heard. 

An anguished whimper wheezed out from the underling’s throat and Azog relented at last. As soon as the sole of his boot came up, the orc wormed itself away, half scampering and half crawling to the safety of some distant corner of the camp, clutching at its side the whole way. 

Thranduil ignored the uncomfortable slow trickle of another vein of blood slipping down the side of his jaw. He was pinned under the pale orc’s watch and he knew better than to look away. 

The powerful being stood at a looming height with his chin held high. His gaze was overflowing with contempt. But the irritated marks of red and violet did not go unnoticed by the Elvenking. He could not deprive himself of the satisfaction he felt at seeing the angry crimson, the tell tale sign of a troublesome wound, plastered on the wide expanse of the orc’s burly chest. His only regret was that he had not driven the blade a little more to the right where the cursed heart still beat. 

His face must have reflected his pleased findings for Azog growled deeply and lunged forward to grab the elf’s jaw. 

_ “Do you find your predicament amusing, parar kaumn?” _ the tone was pitched so menacingly low, that the sound reverberated in Thranduil’s bones. 

Smooth skin pulled taut beneath the calloused pads of the clawed grasp in a belligerent smirk. “Hardly,” Thranduil spoke with casual indifference despite the tightening hold on his face. Silver eyes perused the revolting face before him, glinting with unhindered pride. “I can see the heat of infection upon your brow,  _ Defiler _ . Does it hurt?” he seethed with tangible derision. 

The sharpened ends of the forceful fingers sank into the unmarked flesh beneath them. Vibrant red bubbled from the cuts and trailed stripes through the caked black. The elf did not cringe but rather pushed his head forward and deepened the punctures in his flesh in a brazen act of noncompliance. 

He would not be bullied by an orc. If Azog believed vile words and pure intimidation was going to make him shrink in fright, he had seriously underestimated his opponent. 

Though, to be completely transparent, Thranduil was surprised he had been left alive and it made the elf terribly uneasy. And judging from the earlier display of insubordination, it seemed Azog himself had been the one to demand the elf remain breathing—an even more suspicious speculation. He could only guess what was to become of him, but he would die before he showed the pale orc a trace of trepidation. 

His insults earned him a gust of hot, clammy breath from between the row of fangs.  _ “Not as much as the pain you will feel when I’m done with you, Thranduil ob Tauburz.”  _

“I have seen the first of your kind created by Morgoth. I bathed Beleriand in their filthy blood. I have lived ages beyond what you could comprehend and slain more of your kind than you can possibly fathom. I do not fear death, and I certainly do not fear  _ you _ ,” Thranduil spoke with lethal evenness, his shining eyes aglow with fierce, unwavering fire. 

The wargs surrounding the elf danced impatiently at the thick tension that hushed the camp. More orcs creeped out of the shadows and into the daylight to witness the standoff between the two leaders. 

Azog’s grip on the elf relinquished, the fury in the orc’s wolf-like eyes subsiding to give way to some other emotion entirely. The beast seemed to collect himself, regaining his composure as he looked at the Elvenking with cryptic thoughtfulness.  _ “I don’t plan on killing you.” _

Thranduil’s brow quivered with the faintest hint of confusion. He tensed his sore jaw to keep his countenance from betraying the dread that was steadily building in the pit of his stomach. 

_ “I have other plans for you, sma parar,”  _ Azog rose to his full, foreboding height. The massive shoulders swayed as the hulking figure began to walk around the bound king. His movement was even more predacious than the pack of wargs that drooled from the expanding group of bystanders. 

Thranduil lost sight of the Defiler in his peripheral vision and refused to give into the rising panic that urged him to search him out. He would not look weak. Whatever happened, he was still King of the Woodland Realm. He could not accept being anything less. 

From directly behind, Thranduil’s head was shoved forward by three piercing prongs. The tips dug into the Elvenking’s scalp as they forcibly pushed his head further down. He could feel blood begin to trickle down the back of his neck. 

_ “I intend to make you regret ever crossing my path,”  _ the voice boomed from overhead. Thranduil turned his head slightly against the pressure against his skull to toss his assailant a vindictive glare.  _ “I will make you curse the day you stood between me and my prey,” _ eyes like lifeless winter blazed back. 

_ “I’ve heard tales of the pride of elves,”  _ fingers fondled the locks of platinum blonde that cascaded down the tense back. The touch was revoltingly gentle and the Elvenking openly lurched as it continued up his back to where the strands were stained red. Without warning, the fingers latched themselves to the abused head before him, roughly tangling into the roots of the opulent hair. 

Thranduil’s teeth grated at the twinge of pain, but he remained stubbornly silent, his eyes wild and furious. His skin crawled at the rough pads that squirmed against his scalp. 

_ “They say an elf’s hair is one of their most prized possessions. It is supposed to signify their status and beauty,”  _ the Defiler scoffed with distaste and partial amusement. The words triggered some snarky chuckles from around the crowd.  _ “As if anything about elves could be considered desirable,” _ the iron claw pressed down again, releasing more trails of scarlet to seep into the hair. 

_ “But perhaps there is some utility in that.”  _

Suddenly, the sharp points receded and the fingers clenched tightly onto the mass of hair in their grasp and yanked harshly. 

A gasp was ripped out from the Elvenking’s exposed throat as his eyes once again locked onto the menacing glare of the pale orc. The strain of having his head tilted all the way back required the elf to arch his back in an attempt to relieve the pressure against the fingers that continued to pull. He could feel a fiery throb where strands of hair had already been removed from his scalp from the force. 

His eyes watered faintly from the burn but he still did not rescind.

_ “I must confess,”  _ the orc’s breath ghosted Thranduil’s brow as the hideous face leaned in to whisper.  _ “I have not seen hair like this. Such a thing must be very coveted. I will enjoy wearing it upon my cloth for all to see.”  _

Thranduil’s nostrils flared and his lips parted as a cry of outrage tore from his throat. 

He felt the muscles in his neck jolt in pain as his hair was yanked taut. A black blur briefly whipped past his vision before he suddenly felt the strain on his head stop entirely. 

He immediately lulled forward, spasms running along his back from the extreme contortion just seconds before. He breathed deeply, feeling as if his energy had been sucked from his veins. Something did not feel right. He thought he had nearly lost his connection to the forest before, but now he felt empty. Like a cup overturned and spilling to the floor. 

Severed strands of hair floated before him, falling from his shoulders before being swept away by the wind. His shock did not last long before a gruff hand ensnared itself into what locks of hair still remained. 

He felt each silken hair succumb to the sharp blade of Azog’s horrible metal claw. Every golden thread cut away drew Thranduil further and further from the Greenwood. The wisps that fell away turned duller gray, disconnected from the ethereal power that pulsed in his Fëa. 

He shut his eyes, unable to watch the proof of his weakening link to Arda flutter to the ground like ashes. His heart called out for  _ Eryn Galen _ , feeling a desolation inside that he had never known. 

The sound of slicing continued for a moment more without a word. When it stopped with a final slash, Azog stepped back with a pleased sound to admire his handiwork. 

The hair was unevenly cropped; the sections nearest the elf’s face were the longest but only fell a couple inches at most. The orc enjoyed the drying scarlet coating the back of the skull and the long, exposed neck. The creature didn’t seem so mystique or arrogant now. 

A smug grin cut across the scarred face as Azog prowled to the front of the slumped elf. Despite the defeated posture, the Elvenking’s gaze had not lost its ferocity. The dangerous gleam only darkened as the orc held up the fistful of tresses. 

_ “Whitest gold,” _ Azog marveled at the sheen of the hairs, almost appreciatively if one didn’t know better.  _ “A fine cord for my palhur,”  _ the deep voice thunderously announced with heartless mirth. All the others that had been watching in silence shared in the laughter at the proclamation. 

_ “There is even enough,” _ the pale orc turned his head back to the elf, grin growing wider,  _ “to send some back.”  _

A pang of heartbreaking sorrow swept through the Elvenking’s empty gut at the thought of Legolas seeing the shorn locks. At what pain a reminder of his absence would do to him. Some twisted part of him was glad that his son would have something to remember him by if nothing else was ever found, but the other part knew Legolas was rash and brazen and would stop at nothing to find him. 

No, he’d make the pale orc regret leaving him alive. He would make it out. 

“You’re right,” the elf sat back on his knees to address the orc in a more kingly manner, regardless of the jagged tufts of hair that crowned his head. “What you hold is not commonly found. They will know it is a King’s head you’ve sheared and they  _ will  _ come looking. And once they see your pathetic excuse of an army it will only take moments until every last orc is wiped from existence.”

Azog sneered down at the impudent elf, fingers curling into a tight fist around the gold in their grasp. 

Thranduil matched the contempt in the other’s face, louring with unchecked intensity. “And once they all fall, I will cleave your vile head from your shoulders. I will mount it to the wall like a prized hunt and everyone who enters my halls will know Azog the Defiler’s greatest legacy was nothing more than to spend eternity in pieces and collect dust.” 

Spit flew from the orc’s maw, a sonorous, primal roar deafening all those in the camp. The wargs paced anxiously, yellow eyes peering up at the massive back that stood squared and sturdy. 

_ “Your tongue wags freely yet you forget the rest of you remains shackled to where you kneel,” _ the baritone growled, the hair swinging with every step the orc took forward until he once again stood before the elf. 

There was a moment’s reprieve where both creatures regarded each other with malicious pensiveness. Sizing the other up without straying too far from their warring gazes.

Azog was weakened. That was a certainty. But he needed a window of opportunity to exact his revenge, and that meant time. Precious time that Thranduil didn’t know how he would endure. He was just beginning to reassess his situation when the front of his worn tunic was grabbed tightly in a clawed fist, stray, golden hairs tickling the bottom of his jaw. 

“ _ I need you alive to draw Oakenshield out, but that doesn’t mean you will stay unscathed.” _

A jolt of turmoil spiked up Thranduil’s spine as his tunic was ripped right down the middle. He had already been removed of all his armor and protection before he had awoken, but the thin layer separating his flesh from the exposed, winter air was a privilege he immediately missed. 

Two more careless tears were made down the length of his arms until the entire cloth was pulled free from his bare upper body. 

The remnants of the shirt were tossed to the side without so much as a second glance and two orcs hurriedly ran out from the crowd to fight for the scraps. Left with nothing covering his bare chest, Thranduil fought the crawling sensation in his flesh to stay unmoved and unperturbed. 

“If you think Thorin Oakenshield will come to my rescue, you are gravely mistaken,” he gruffed, his sides expanding in hastened breathing despite the authoritative tone. 

The orc snorted in amusement, intently watching the elf for a break in that haughty facade.  _ “Then you had better hope this will be enough to draw him out,” _ the orc leaned forward, his stinking breath coating Thranduil’s collarbone and chin. The metal spike was raised up and in a revolting mockery of affection, brushed the side of the elf’s jaw before a prong snagged the bottom of the chapped lips and pulled the pink flesh apart. 

Thranduil stilled at the action, willing the urge to flinch away from worry of losing another eye. His skin rose in goosebumps at the repulsing gesture, his heart ramming against his exposed chest as he felt his lip pulled down and his teeth bared. 

The scars around Azog’s lips stretched almost painfully at the splitting grin at seeing the first shudder of fear.  _ “Because if not, parar kaumn, your smart tongue will be the next gift I send.”  _

His words were punctuated by a sharp sting of pain as the iron claw cut the lip before withdrawing. A bead of scarlet plumped atop the incision before rolling down the tensed chin.

_ “Fokkul ul tarmuadz!” _ Azog bellowed. Before the last word had even sounded, orcs scattered in every direction. Water was thrown over the fires and belongings were quickly gathered in chaotic madness. The pale orc surveyed the horde a moment more before he turned to a few, bulkier orcs that had lingered in the shadows nearby. Without even looking at them, his head turning to fix upon the kneeling king, he uttered in a low, sadistic purr,  _ “get the rope.” _

The command was responded with enthusiasm and excited hisses. One orc scampered off to retrieve the item while the other two approached the Elvenking.

He resisted as much as he could in his restraints, but was easily shoved forward after the bonds tying him to the stump were cut. His chest scratched the rough, gravelly dirt of the clearing and his shoulder throbbed deeply. He could see the skin had turned black and a startling purple and he wondered if it was not just dislocated but perhaps shattered as well. 

Experimentally, he tried to lift his arm from off the ground but a rough, gnarled hand pushed his bruised flesh to the ground and he opened in his mouth in a silent scream. 

He felt more gruff hands grab his adjoined wrists and realized with a renewed rush of hope that his binds were being severed. Despite the agony radiating from his shoulder, Thranduil thrashed violently against the two bodies holding him down. His hands flailed wildly, searching for something to grab and help in his escape. 

A frustrated snarl gusted from the left and another hand pressed against his side, and with it, the prodding end of the object used to free him of his tethers. 

In one harsh movement, Thranduil twisted his body, kicking out his leg into the ankle of the orc on his left, feeling the exact moment the weight of the hands lessened enough for him to squirm and curl his neck under his shoulder and see the glint of the knife. His hand dove for the wrist. There was a small gap between the makeshift gauntlet and the glove where Thranduil aimed. His fingers snaked around the gray flesh, digging in like vices and wrenching the appendage towards him while his legs locked around the distracted orc’s shin and foot.

The creature screeched and nearly tugged his arm out from the Elvenking’s grasp, but not before Thranduil dug the heel of his boot into the top of the foot and used the other to stamp the side of the knee with a grunt. The wretch fell to the side with a grisly pop, the knife slipping from its grasp and into the palms of the elf. 

The fingers in his shoulder dug in and tears prickled Thranduil’s vision, but he did not slow. He slashed out with the blade, black flecks spraying the ground before he turned just in time to miss the fist flying at his face. He was still pinned to the ground and couldn’t move enough to avoid the blow altogether. The knuckles collided into his back and he gasped at the force. 

He vaguely saw the silhouette of the arm reeling back for another punch and instinctively shot out his leg to knock the abysmal thing off balance. The stagger was slight, but it was enough for Thranduil to roll over and gut the beast. The short dagger dug into the belly, black blood raining down to splatter his skin in nauseatingly warm, inky drops. It fizzled down at him, still desperately grappling at his shoulder. With a grimace of revulsion, Thranduil dragged the blade further into the flesh from one hip to the other. He was bathed in the blood.

He shoved the body away from him, the knife separating from the corpse with a foul noise. 

Thranduil shakily got to his feet, head flitting from side to side as he sought the pale orc out. He was not where he had last seen him standing and did not know where he had moved during the hectic scuffle. Feeling something closing in, his hold tightened around the blade. 

He leaped back from the snapping jaws of the white warg. The beast lunged forward from the bushes with the pale orc astride. He swiped at the mangy thing with the dagger and nicked its rough nose. Instead of recoiling in pain, it only seemed more agitated by the action. 

Thranduil slowly strifed to the side, the dagger poised ready in hand. He knew he could not outrun the beast and would most likely die trying to kill it with such a feeble blade that could barely pierce its thick hide. His only chance was to kill the rider. 

A game of waiting ensued between elf and warg. While Thranduil waited patiently for an advantageous opening, the canine seemed entertained by the tension. 

It felt like eons had passed before the twitch of muscles beneath the hulking shoulders warned of the sudden rush forward. Thranduil side-stepped and grabbed a fistful of wiry white fur. The warg snapped its head to the side, trying to bite into the elf. But Thranduil’s hold was strong and the movement only aided the elf in scaling up the bulky neck and thrusting the dagger out towards the solid, white chest. 

He could see the minute shrinking of the dark pupils as the blade drew closer. The tip broke through the scarred flesh but did not cut an inch deeper as a constricting tightness wrapped around the Elvenking’s throat. 

He let out a choked gasp, feeling an unforgiving tug at his neck that sent him flying to the ground. His back and shoulder smacked the hard ground and another wave of unrelenting hurt nearly made him curl in on himself. 

His hands blindly tussled with the cord of rope around his neck, scrabbling for any kind of release. The yank had cut off his ability to intake air and he found himself reliving that horrid sensation of drowning all over again. 

Above him, he could see Azog lean over in fascination, watching him squirm like a hawk watches a snake. He had the dagger in his hand. He brought it to his lips and licked the blood off with absentminded pleasure. 

_ “Najor’s naka kartart,”  _ he sneered. _ “Doturog naj-ri tog.” _

This time when hands grabbed at him, Thranduil could hardly protest. The noose around his neck was removed but it took several moments for him to regain his breath. His sides continued to heave and his vision swam queasily. He was crossing in and out of reality and could barely stand when he was led to his feet by rough pushes. He was only partly aware of the fact his hands were now bound in front of him. Hazily, his eyes tracked the rope’s length to the other end which was being fastened to the harness of Azog’s warg.

He could hardly put two and two together before he was suddenly jerked forward by his hands. He stumbled to keep from falling but had no time to rest before another pull at his hands sent him crashing to his knees. 

A chain of cold laughter brought a heated flush to Thranduil’s face. He sent as menacing a glare as he could given his murky state but it only earned him another tug at his worn joints. Another step and he cried out from the agony in his shoulder. 

_ “I cannot wait all day for you, elf. It is a long road to Dol Guldor. I will drag you if I must.”  _

Thranduil’s face blanched. Dol Guldor was a several day’s journey by mount. To do it on foot was going to be impossible. 

Before he could build the dread with another thought, he was dragged forward. He struggled to his feet with the ceaseless pull but finally managed to. He was winded already from the exertion and had to jog to keep the rope a manageable length. 

It did not take more than ten minutes for the exhaustion to overcome him. Battered and drained, he collapsed to his knees, cringing as his body was dragged against the ground several yards before the horde finally stopped moving. He could feel the blissful call of unconsciousness cloak his mind. He felt the impact of heavy steps nearing before he closed his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. Poor Thranduil. Unfortunately I have much more in store for him, too. 
> 
> Lots of translations going on in here. I also could not for the life of me find a reliable Orkish translator so forgive the errors because I know for certain it is not all that accurate. 
> 
> Elvish:
> 
> Nanwenmë - return to us  
> kalmar - child of light  
> Mín tur-’t cenin - we cannot see you
> 
> Orkish:
> 
> doturog naj-ri tog - tie him up  
> Najor’s naka kartart - he’s going blue.   
> fokkulz ul tarmuadz - ready the riders  
> palhur - cloth (loincloth)  
> sma - small  
> ob tauburz - of Mirkwood  
> parar kaumn - elf king  
> Kigiji ni ku uorkormajal - this one is mine  
> Dugparar - elf flith
> 
> Hope you’ve enjoyed! Believe it or not, it gets much worse.


End file.
